Beautiful Stranger
by ravenscaronff
Summary: John runs into a new resident at his condo and things get interesting. Notes Chapter 1 not beta'd or brit-picked. Chapters 2 and up beta'd by PickyPicky (from AO3). I own nothing. All characters are owned by ACD and Moftiss.
1. Beautiful Stranger

_Notes _

_Chapter 1 not beta'd or brit-picked. _

_Chapters 2+ beta'd by PickyPicky (from AO3). I own nothing. All characters are owned by ACD and Moftiss._

**Beautiful Stranger**

Beautiful Stranger - Madonna

_Haven't we met, You're some kind of beautiful stranger_  
_You could be good for me, I've had the taste for danger_

_If I'm smart then I'll run away_  
_But I'm not so I guess I'll stay_  
_Heaven forbid, I'll take my chance on a beautiful stranger_

_I looked into your eyes and my world came tumbling down_  
_You're the devil in disguise, that's why I'm singing this song_

When John was twenty-three, he was studying to be a doctor. He had rented a bachelor pad in a high-rise condo. He loved heights and loved looking out at the London skyline at night and so he had chosen to rent a flat on the twenty-second floor that afforded a view of the London Eye and St. Paul's in the background. His budget was painfully stretched but he loved his flat. John was an attractive young man. Not very tall, 5'6", but was very fit. He dressed well, within his means, wearing sensible clothes like jeans and fitted shirts that showed off his physique. His blond hair was worn artfully in a floppy, longish cut that spilled over his forehead and his collar. His eyes appeared to be black until one got close enough to him to see that they were actually a deep, dark blue, and his easy smile was irresistible to both women and men. John was an equal-opportunity lover and had engaged in intimate encounters with both sexes although he leaned towards the male form. He was waiting for a man who would take his breath away and make him want a serious relationship, but he had yet to meet this man. And then, one day, he did.

He had parked his motorcycle in the garage and was riding up the lift to his flat. The lift opened on the ground floor and two men entered. One of them he recognized as a resident on the fifth floor. The other was a stranger, a tall man probably a little over 6', lean, very pale and very, very well dressed. His dark suit and wine red shirt individually looked more expensive than John's rent. John was standing at the back of the lift, by one corner and the stranger walked to the opposite corner and turned to look at John. The stranger smiled. Or smirked. It looked more like a smirk. And he continued to stare at John. The air in the lift seemed electrically charged and John became uncomfortable with the stranger's direct gaze. He tore his eyes away and caught the third man looking at him in their reflection in the highly polished lift doors. The door opened on the fifth floor and the third man got out. __

John noticed the other man had not punched in his floor.__

He cleared his throat and said 'You didn't get your floor.'__

'Twenty-two', the man said and smiled. __

His deep, smooth voice was undeniably male and silken and sent a shudder down John's spine. They were going to be alone for another seventeen floors. _Shit. Shit. Shit._

John stared straight ahead, at the doors, but could see that the stranger was leaning against the wall, still looking at him. He seemed to be deducing John, his eyes curiously studying him, his clothes, his hair, his shoulder bag, motorcycle helmet. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the lift dinged and the doors opened on the twenty-second floor. The stranger walked out first onto the thickly carpeted corridor and John followed. __

John's door came first and he tried to stall, pretending to fumble with his keys. The stranger seemed to have stopped a little ahead and John lifted his head and found himself looking straight into the stranger's eyes. He was still smirking. John's face flushed a bright red at being caught and he looked down, quickly turned his key in the lock and fled into his apartment.__

The following week was uneventful. The stranger was nowhere to be seen and John found himself taking the lift up and down the building for no reason at all except a blind hope of running into him again. He couldn't stop thinking about him. Everything about the man was long and lean. He looked quite a bit younger than John and John felt like an old pervert. Nonetheless, he closed his eyes and visualized a long pale face, exquisite cheekbones, soft dark curls tumbling over a proud forehead, dark eyebrows over mesmerizing, gray-green eyes that suggested danger. And those lips. Arrogant, soft, plump flesh pulled into a hard expression. Dominant. Commanding. John wanted to know all the secrets hiding behind that mysterious face. He realized he sounded obsessed and shook his head with a laugh, mentally giving himself a slap to snap out of this fantasy.__

John's days progressed as usual and one evening, he parked his motorcycle and rode up the lift to the ground floor to collect his mail and then pressed for the lift again. There was a ding and the lift doors opened. As usual, he walked to the back and began looking through the envelopes in his hand. He was followed by an elderly couple, two teenage girls and a teenage boy. The lift doors began to close when a pale hand appeared between them and they opened again. He looked up to find he was caught in a staring match with the stranger. John's eyes widened in surprise and his tongue darted out instinctively to lick his lower lip. The stranger breathing was a little laboured as though he had sprinted to catch the lift. He made his way to the back of the lift to stand at the opposite corner again and cocked a contemptuous eyebrow at John who was openly devouring him with his eyes. __

The stranger's dark hair was damp, clumped curls spilled onto his forehead and his face had a slight sheen and his cheeks were flushed pink, with the cold and the exertion. He had just run in from the rain and he looked stunning. John swallowed and looked away. The two girls were giggling and whispering to each other, looking back at the stranger, but soon gave up, realizing he was indifferent to their attentions. They began jostling about, tittering over their Blackberries and their text messages to their boyfriends and every time they moved, their backpacks bumped hard into John. As soon as he moved a little to the middle of the back wall, closer to the stranger, one of the girls took advantage of the extra space and roughly sidled into what had been his corner. John was pushed off balance and accidentally shoved his shoulder into the stranger's arm.__

'S…Sorry…', he stammered, looking up into laughing gray-green irises.__

'It's alright', he heard a smiling, deep, sepulchral voice say.__

The air left John in a swoosh and he had to lean his head back against the lift wall, trying to force air into his lungs. When, at last, he managed to take a breath, it was the huge gulp of a drowning man and the stranger was looking down at him in an unbroken gaze, in undisguised amusement. __

John's cock had suddenly sprung to life, hot and throbbing, so he discreetly moved his satchel in front of his body to conceal the growing tumescence in his trousers. The stranger let out a very soft, very brief snigger that he was sure was meant only for the two of them. _Oh…He knew…_

The lift had emptied by the eighth floor and John's heart hammered in his chest as he thought of the fourteen floors they would ride in solitude. And silence. He had moved back to his corner of the lift and the stranger kept to his side, staring ahead. John fidgeted with his bag, his shoes, he tried to control his breathing – he felt he was too loud. His heart thudded in his ears and between his panting breaths and thundering heart, he was sure the stranger was fully seized of his physical distress. He looked up at the lift doors and his body jolted when his eyes locked with the stranger's in the reflection. Magnetic gray-green eyes, narrowed in amusement, watched him with open interest and seemed to have been watching him for a while. He looked down at his shoes knowing the stranger's eyes were still on him. __

The lift hummed for a few minutes and then finally dinged and opened on the twenty-second floor. This time, the stranger held the door for John, his head tilted in an 'after you' kind of way. John swallowed and nearly ran to his flat. He was looking down at the lock on his door, fumbling with the keys, and this time he wasn't pretending, when he felt a huff of warm breath on his ear and heard a deep voice purr 'Good night, neighbour'. Never had the word 'neighbour' carried this much innuendo. He swore audibly 'Fuck!' and heard the purr sharpen into a smug laugh as the stranger threw his head back and walked ahead to his door. John's bloody key finally clicked and his door unlocked but he couldn't help steal a glance to his left before entering his flat and was not surprised to see the stranger casually leaning against his door, a hand in his hair, with a slight smile on his face that didn't reach his cold, gray eyes. Then the stranger winked and John's torso collapsed as if someone had slammed into his chest. His head fell against the door and he coughed out and once again, fled into his flat. __

The next day, John parked his motorcycle in the garage and was taking off his helmet when he heard the smooth roar of a powerful, high-end engine. He looked around and saw a black Jaguar coupe expertly pull into a parking spot against the opposite wall. The door swung open and John's stranger got out. _Great, he was rich, too._ He slammed the door shut and was about to lock the car but then opened it again and bent down and dipped into the car, one knee on the driver's seat, to reach over to the passenger seat. John was given a splendid view of an even more splendid backside, clad in fitted dark trousers. The stranger emerged and straightened up, holding his shoulder bag. This time he did lock the car. He looked irritated about something but when he turned around and caught John's naked look of arousal, he smiled and said 'Oh, hello.' __

John blubbered his way through a 'H-hello...Y-yeah. I've got to run' and fled into the building. He was always fleeing from this stranger.__

He pummeled the button for the lift repeatedly, impatiently, desperately hoping to ride it alone today. __

'You only need to press it once', a low voice said, dangerously close to his ear._ If sex were translated to audio frequencies, this is what sex would sound like._

'Yes, yes...I...uh...I forgot I need to check my mail. Well…Good night.' __

The stranger smiled. 'Oh, good thing you mentioned that. I should check mine too. Let's walk together. We are, after all, neighbours'.__

Oh, god! Stop with the bloody innuendo! John shouted in his head.__

The stranger picked up the mail for 221B and John picked his from the slot for 221A. __

'You're applying to join the army', the stranger said.__

John stopped short and dropped his mail. 'Shit, I'm a klutz'.__

'No, just easily startled. Let me help you...' the stranger bent down to pick up the mail and tried to read the name on the envelope. __

John snatched it away and mumbled 'Thank you.'__

He realized he had been rude and offered 'I'm John.'__

'Hello, John', the stranger drawled, stretching out the name, rolling it in his mouth to make it sound like 'Jawwn'. His name, if spoken by a lover.__

Fuck. I'm going to cum if he says my name like that.

'And you are...?' he inquired.__

'Interested', the stranger answered.__

They went back to the lift and this time, they were the only passengers for the entire ride up. The stranger was not looking at John today. __

But you said you were interested. John protested. _Look at me. Look at me, bloody hell._ __

When they arrived at their floor, they walked out in silence and entered their flats. Not another word was spoken.__

John paced his flat like a madman, working through the tangle in his head. __

When would he see the stranger again? He hadn't seen him for a week after that first time. __

What was his name and what did he do? He was definitely not straight. Bi? NO. John didn't want to think of the stranger with a woman. __

How old was he? He looked young, late teens perhaps. Was he underage? John's desires were decidedly adult. __

Would the stranger want to talk to him? Would the stranger like him? As a person? Would he want to see him regularly, as a friend perhaps? __

What would he say to the man? _Hi, I'm John. I'm twenty-three years old and I want to take you to bed. Tonight and any night you'll let me. You said you were interested. Are you, really? Because I really, really hope you are. Because I want you. What the fuck! Think, John. You've picked up men before. But none like him._ Not one of John's previous lovers was like him. This man was an enigma. And John was mystified and desperate to know him. And terrified. __

Fuck this. There's only one way to find out. John was known as the Audacious One among his friends and tonight was the night for that fabled audacity to be put to good use. __

He showered, brushed his teeth, pulled on a new pair of jeans and t-shirt and headed for the stranger's flat. He stood outside 221B, his heart fluttering apprehensively as he chewed on his lips. He swallowed his fear and knocked on the door. __

'It's open', he heard the debilitatingly sexual voice say.__

He turned the knob and opened the door into a dark living room. He squinted to make out his surroundings and when, a few moments later, his eyes adjusted, he saw a dark form sitting on an armchair by the window. __

'You are not surprised to see me', he managed to say.__

'I was expecting you tonight.'__

'I…uh…'__

'I know what you want and I want it too. One night. No names, no back stories. Just sex. That's my offer.'__

'I'll take it.'__

The stranger stood up and walked towards John, stepping into the moon light streaming through the curtains.. John saw he was wearing a dark, probably black, silk robe. Of course. Everything about the stranger was dark. And yet, he was so pale.__

'You look very young. How old are you?' John asked.__

'Don't worry, I'm legal.'__

'How old?' he repeated.__

'Twenty-one'.__

'You look much younger. Alright. That's…that's good.'__

'Bedroom's that way', the stranger said, cocking his head toward a dark corridor.__

'Yeah, yeah...alright', John exhaled. Hard.__

The stranger walked to the bedroom and bent down to light a candle. Lavender. Of course, sensual lavender for a sensual man.__

'I like to have sex in candlelight. Is that acceptable?'__

'It's more than acceptable.'__

The tall man untied his robe and shrugged his shoulders. The silken fabric slipped off his bare shoulders and floated to the floor, landing in a ruffle at his feet. John's jaw dropped open. __

'Are you for real?'__

The stranger smiled, standing completely naked, long lines with lean muscles gleaming golden in the candlelight.__

'Fuck, you're gorgeous. I could cum just looking at you.'__

'We wouldn't want that, now, would we? Well, you're overdressed.' he stated factually.__

'I...uh...I should...uh...take...'__

'Are you always this articulate when you're about to have sex?'__

'Nope. Just around you.'__

John began undressing while the stranger watched him keenly. His eyes never left John. John took off his shoes, his socks, his T-shirt and jeans and stood waiting in his boxers. Cotton, he thought ruefully. He was sure the other man's pants were silk. Everything about him was silk. His voice, his body, his hair, his eyes. Oh god, those eyes were driving him mad with want.__

'Well?' the other man inquired impatiently. 'We do have all night but I'd like to get started, if you don't particularly mind.' __

John had never felt embarrassed about his body but the pale, statuesque body before his eyes made him diffident. __

'Oh, come now, I'm sure you're adequate', the stranger huffed and walked up to John, knelt before him and pulled his boxers down to his ankles in a single yank.__

'John!' he sounded delighted. 'You are magnificent!'__

He looked up at John, grinning like a schoolboy and curled his fingers around John's impressive erection which was getting more impressive by the second as it swelled under the other man's ministrations. __

'I'm going to suck you', the stranger said and engulfed John's erection. John bit his lip to stop from screaming.__

And then the other man sucked John's flesh like he was born to do it. Hard and soft, licking and sucking and laving, pulling back till only the tip was in his mouth and then taking the shaft all the way to the back of his throat, swallowing. John was making little noises that were getting louder and higher pitched until, a few minutes later, he tugged on the other man's hair to signal he was close. The man pulled off, looked up at John for a moment, as if coming to a decision, and then bent his head to take John into his mouth again.__

Oh god, he's going to swallow. Oh god ohgodohgodohgod!

The pressure and suction on his flesh continued unabated and a few seconds later a howl of pleasure ripped from him as he came gloriously and hard, his cock twitching in the other man's mouth as it spilled gobs of hot cum down his throat. The other man swallowed everything John had and when John had stopped pulsing, he pulled off the flaccid flesh and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.__

John was bent over, his hands holding the stranger's shoulders for support as he caught his breath.__

The other man stood up and John fell limply against his chest, weak with pleasure. The body against his stiffened and the long arms remained at its side. John continued to breathe heavily, panting almost, as he tried to bring his pleasured out body down from its high. A few excruciatingly long moments later, the stranger raised his arms to encircle John in a tentative and clearly reluctant embrace. John understood. The stranger was only interested in bodily contact inasmuch as it constituted or led to sex. Anything else seemed distasteful to him.__

John pulled back and straightened up. The arms fell back down.__

'I suppose, in a few minutes, you will be up for returning the favour?'__

'Yeah...yeah...I just need a moment. Please...And thank you.'__

The stranger shrugged and walked to the bed and lay down. He had thrown his arms above his head on the pillow and bent one leg at the knee, unabashedly presenting his nakedness for John's viewing pleasure. John approached the bed and looked over the lean form laid out before him against dark, decadent sheets. Black. Of course. He licked his lips, feeling like a glutton at a buffet.__

'May I kiss you?' he asked, nervously.__

The stranger continued to look at him questioningly.__

'On the mouth', he clarified.__

'No.'__

'Anywhere else that's off limits?'__

'No.'__

John was silent.__

'Problem?'__

'No...no, it's fine. It's all fine.'__

He moved to sit on the bed next to the other man's prone form and leaned down to press his lips to the long, slender neck and smiled against the other man's skin when he heard him hiss in pleasure. He moved his lips down soft skin, parting them slightly to place wet kisses along the length. He kissed back up the same path and stopped at the sensitive skin behind the stranger's ear and licked. __

'Uhhhhhh...', the other man breathed. Emboldened, John began to lick and lightly nip at the tender skin, feeling the other man's body begin to move against his. He lifted his head and began dropping kisses on the cheekbones, chin, jawline, forehead, temples and cheeks that he had desired from afar. He pulled back to look pointedly at the stranger's lips and then into his eyes. Those eyes were hard. Lips were, indeed, off limits. Moving on then...__

John kissed down the man's throat and then along his prominent collar bone, down to his chest, his tongue darting out to lick a pink nipple, watching as it darkened into a hard nub, sucking on it and catching it lightly between his teeth and pulling. The body under him bowed off the bed and he heard a tortured cry and then hands were in his hair, pulling his head back. __

Wild eyes bored into his and the other man growled 'What are you doing!'__

'This is how _I_ like to have sex. Problem?' John asked, feeling a little self-satisfied at having reduced the cold man to a quivering mess with just his mouth. And he was just getting started.__

'No..Just…you may continue', the other man permitted imperiously and his head fell back on the pillow.__

John lowered his head again and kissed a wet trail down the stranger's belly and dipped his tongue into his navel, circling it and licking and sucking. He pressed his lips to the vulnerable under-belly, turning his face to the side to rub his cheeks on the soft skin and downy hair that arrowed down to a throbbing erection.__

John looked worshipfully at the long, thick cock was resting, heavy and lazy, against its owner's body. He ghosted his fingers along its length and ran his thumb over the tip, smearing it with the pearly, pre-cum oozing out. He raised his eyes to see the stranger looking down at his hands touching his flesh, his mouth open, breath coming in hard, short heaves.__

Time to show him what you do best, John.

John shifted fully onto the bed and pushed the other man's legs apart so that he could kneel between his legs. He bent his head and licked the swollen tip of the stranger's cock, hearing a soft moan, almost a sob. He looked up to see the other man biting down on his fist to keep from crying out. Placing his hands under the other man's thighs, he pushed his knees all the way back so that his legs were folded, thighs pressed against his chest, fully exposed to John's exploring mouth. John licked all the way from the man's balls up along the length of his shaft to the tip where he ran his tongue around the slit and then dipped into it to taste.__

'Fuucckkkk…', he heard. That moan was so raw, so nakedly erotic that John found he was growing hard again. __

He placed his closed lips around the tip and lowered his head, allowing the thick cock to separate his lips and slip into his mouth. Then he began to suck. Hard. Hollowed cheeks and nimble tongue and wet heat caressed and tormented the turgid flesh in his mouth and he bobbed his head, up and down, licking, laving, kissing, swallowing stopping only when a hand yanked on his hair.__

Pulling off, he looked up into intoxicating eyes, wrecked with sensation.__

'I want you to fuck me.'__

'But…'__

'I want you inside me. Now!' the stranger rasped.__

'Are you sure?'__

In reply, a bottle of lube and a condom were tossed at him. __

'Quickly…'__

John opened the bottle and liberally smeared his fingers with lube. He tapped on the other man's thigh and his legs fell apart, giving John full access. John reached down to his cleft and gently, very gently, felt around for the small puckered hole. He heard a gasp when he found it and pressed into the centre and then slowly, tenderly, pushed one finger in, knuckle by knuckle, until it was fully embedded in the tight, hot passage. He pulled out and pushed back in a few times until he felt the other man begin to relax. Carefully, a second and then a third finger were added and he fucked the stranger with his slick fingers, twisting his wrist and bending his fingers until he found the small bundle of nerves. He brushed it causing the body under him to stiffen and then twist like it was about to break. He moved his fingers and the body fell, boneless, back on the bed.__

A curly head lifted and the stranger barked 'Now! I'm ready now!'__

John didn't need to be told twice. He pulled out his fingers a little quicker than he intended and the other man winced. __

'Sorry!'__

'Just get on with it and fuck me already.'__

John rolled on the condom, lubed it up generously and positioned his cock at the stranger's entrance and pushed in. Just enough so that his tip had popped through the ring of muscle. He held there for a moment while his lover (_could he call him that?_) adjusted to being penetrated by John's thick cock. He waited a beat and then pushed himself all the way in one long, smooth move.__

'Uunnnhhhhhh…', he heard a broken moan and he pushed in harder till his thighs were flush with the other man's buttocks. Nails were digging into his shoulders and long legs were clasped around his hips, crossed at the ankles. He bowed his body, burying his head in the stranger's neck, breathing against his skin, holding himself up on his forearms which ran below the other man's back, hands curling up to hold his shoulders. __

Then John began to move. Snapping his hips, hard, fast, in an animalistic rhythm. Their heavy breathing and cries were punctuated by filthy sounds of slick skin slapping and fucking. John pounded the long, pale body below him, over and over, crying in pleasure as he felt himself nearing his second orgasm. He felt a hand leave his back to reach for the neglected cock between them but he pushed the hand away. He lowered his body and pressed down so that his lover's cock was being rubbed by his belly. On every push and pull, he made sure his belly rubbed up and down on the shaft. He undulated his body to massage the swollen organ until the stranger began to gasp that he was close.__

John continued to stab into the tight, silky hole that was gobbling him now, clenching and releasing around him until, with a long, ragged, moan, the man below him arched his back and released hot slickness against their bellies as he orgasmed. John was not far behind and a few seconds later was crying out his own release into the other man whose walls were shuddering around his pulsing organ. They spilled into and on each other for long moments and John collapsed on his partner's chest, nearly sobbing with pleasure. __

Unconsciously, he tilted his head up to place tender kisses on his lover's cheeks and jawline and, before he realized what he was doing, he had pressed his lips to the other man's lips. He held his lips there for a few seconds, realizing that the body below him had frozen. John was just about to pull away and apologize when the lips he was kissing started to kiss back. Not separating their lips, he shifted to move off the other man to his side and leaned over to continue kissing him. __

He cradled his face in his hands as he tentatively parted his lips, unsure of how far he would be allowed to go. A tongue came out to lick his lips, inviting him in, in a gesture more intimate than the closeness they had just shared, and John knew he was being allowed. Allowed to kiss like he had wanted to. With a moan, he descended to fully cover the stranger's mouth with his, loving and laving those beautiful lips with his tongue, sucking on them, wetly, again and again, exploring the mouth under his with tenderness and wonder, tasting, licking, discovering and then opening his mouth to offer the same to the other man. He heard the distinct sound of a sob and felt it like a stab in his chest. He was filled with a need to hold this fragile, vulnerable man in his arms and protect him and give him warmth and affection, a sanctuary, so that he never sobbed like that again.__

They kissed and kissed again, for a long time, separating for the few seconds it took them to catch their breaths before resuming their shared worship of their bodies, their fingertips tracing patterns of affection on their skin, hands caressing the other's hair, running down the other's face. John was holding the other man's face when he felt the skin under his hands go wet and felt his heart clench when he realized his lover was crying. __

He pulled back to look at the beautiful face he had just kissed. __

'Hey, hey, baby…what's wrong? Did I hurt you? Please baby, talk to me.'__

'Nothing's wrong. Just a physiological reaction, that's all', the stranger cut him off gruffly. __

His moist eyes and tear-streaked face broke John's heart but he knew he was being shut out. He had been allowed more than he had been told he could expect and the other man appeared to have his guard up again. __

John moved his body and fell back on the bed. The moment, the magical moment when they were one, had passed.__

'We should get cleaned up', he said and grabbed some tissues to wipe them both clean, disposing of the condom and used tissues before pulling his clothes on. __

'You don't need to get dressed.'__

'I'm not walking back to my flat naked, even if it's next door.'__

'You don't have to leave.'__

John shook his head. 'I think I do.'__

He stopped at the bedroom door and turned around for one last look at his lover. His heart was breaking.__

Goodbye, beautiful stranger.

Chapter End Notes

_No prizes for guessing who the 'Beautiful Stranger' is. :)_


	2. Hello

**Hello**

Hello - Lionel Ritchie_I've been alone with you inside my mind_  
_And in my dreams I've kissed your lips a thousand times_  
_I sometimes see you pass outside my door_  
_Hello!_  
_Is it me you're looking for?_  
_I can see it in your eyes, I can see it in your smile_  
_You're all I've ever wanted and my arms are open wide_  
_'cause you know just what to say and you know just what to do_  
_And I want to tell you so much I love you_

_I long to see the sunlight in your hair_  
_And tell you time and time again how much I care_  
_Sometimes I feel my heart will overflow_  
_Hello!_  
_I've just got to let you know _  
_'cause I wonder where you are and I wonder what you do_  
_Are you somewhere feeling lonely or is someone loving you?_  
_Tell me how to win your heart for I haven't got a clue_  
_But let me start by saying I love you_

**_...Goodbye, beautiful stranger._**

John entered his flat and shut the door, leaning against it, repeatedly knocking his head on the door, trying to bring order to his mind as he reviewed what had just happened. What he had just done.

_He was crying. I walked out on him. What the fuck am I doing? Shit. I left him. I'm a bastard!_

He clutched his hair, his knuckles digging painfully into his scalp. 'Fuck!' he exclaimed. A minute later, he was knocking on his neighbour's door. When no one answered, he turned the handle. The door wasn't locked so he opened it and entered the dark flat again.

He walked to the bedroom and saw that the candle had been extinguished, wondering distantly if it was symbolic.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness and stopped on the man whose body he had claimed fifteen minutes ago. He was lying in bed, turned away from him, facing the window. John took his clothes off, leaving his boxers on, and lowered himself onto the bed, settling under the covers. He lay on his back, not touching the other man and neither of them spoke for a long time. John turned on his side to look at his lover and reached out a hand to stroke his back, ghosting his fingers down his spine, tracing the angles of his thin shoulder blades and then leaned forward to press a soft kiss to the back of his neck.

He felt the other man gasp and then a heard a whispered, hesitant question.

'Why did you come back?'

'I was an idiot to leave. I'm sorry.'

'No one comes back.'

His lover sounded forsaken and John felt his heart splinter.

'I did...'

'Why?'

'I...don't…I don't know…'

'Why did you leave?'

The other man had turned to look at John. They lay facing each other, saying nothing. John had a sinking feeling in his stomach as though he were teetering at the edge of a precipice. He knew his next words had to be chosen very carefully as they could mark a beginning or an end. Of _what_ he didn't know, but this was the _before_ and anything he said now had the potential to destroy the _after._ Or create it.

'An hour back, I couldn't think beyond sex with you. Now, I just want to hold you', he confessed. 'I left because…my feelings frighten me. I am…scared…of what I feel for you.'

'Why?'

Guileless eyes locked with his, searching, and he suddenly wanted to lose his identity and meld with this enigmatic man lying naked before him until they were one.

'Why?' his lover persisted.

'I've never felt this much this quickly. Ever…This was supposed to just be sex. But I…I feel something _more_. I can't fight it or control it. Or even _explain_ it. And it's terrifying. I'm terrified.'

'I'm terrified too', the man before him admitted in a small voice.

Their eyes flitted back and forth for a long time, each trying to read the other's mind, trying, and failing, to understand this tenuous prelude to the bond they knew was forming between them. And then, intuitively, they both tilted their heads forward to nervously press their lips together, softly kissing and licking in a tender, aching expression of wonder, apprehension, doubt. And hope.

'You're still wearing clothes', his lover said.

John pushed his boxers down and kicked them off, letting them fall to the floor.

The stranger moved closer to rest his head on John's arm, his face pressed into his chest, a pale arm curled around John's back and a thigh pushed between John's, pulling him into the warm cocoon of an utterly natural embrace. And that's how they fell asleep, lying skin against skin, John breathing into the stranger's dark, tousled curls and the stranger breathing against the soft hair on John's chest, listening to the steady, hypnotic beat of his heart.

The following morning, John awoke early and carefully extricated himself from a tangle of long limbs. He had to attend classes at Uni. He leaned over to press a soft kiss to his lover's forehead, pulled on his clothes and left quietly, shutting the door behind him.

Three days had passed and the stranger remained elusive. John tried to be an adult about it but finally caved in to his yearning to see him again and knocked on his door. He heard a muffled voice. Or voices. He couldn't tell. A few moments later, footsteps approached the door and it was opened by a tall, quaint man with auburn hair. He looked to be around thirty and was dressed in a three-piece suit. Very English. Very posh.

'S…sorry, I wasn't aware he had company.'

'It's quite alright', the other man said in a crisp, upper crust accent and shut the door.

A dejected John returned to 221A.

The next day he rode up the lift after his classes and his face brightened when his stranger got in on the ground floor. He was looking down at his phone and seemed preoccupied and when his head lifted, he looked right at John and then went back to texting on his phone. The rebuff felt like a slap to his face and John flushed, hot and red. He didn't make any further overtures and moved to the front of the lift, agitatedly waiting for the ride to end. No sooner had the doors opened on the twenty-second floor than he walked out, unlocked his door and shut it behind him without giving the stranger a second glance.

Later that evening, John called for the lift, holding his laundry basket. When it arrived, the doors opened and the posh man stepped out, looked past John and headed for his neighbour's flat. The man knocked on the door, it opened and he went in. John stood rooted to his spot, not caring that the lift had come and gone. He bit his lip hard enough to bleed. _Who's this guy? A friend? Boyfriend? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

The following evening, John rode the lift up to his flat but was joined by his neighbour on the ground floor. The pale man looked pointedly in his direction but was stoutly ignored by an irate John.

'John…'

'Fuck. Off.' John's voice was cold. He knew he was behaving like a jealous adolescent but _fuck_ that. He felt what he felt.

That night, there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find himself looking into hopeful, verdigris eyes. His lips curled in resentment and he shut the door in the other man's face with a bang.

Two evenings later, he again saw the tall, older man in the lift. He ignored John who exited the lift on the ground floor.

John's head felt ready to explode and he wanted to scream. He took a brisk walk around the block to clear his head and assess the situation and his reactions. He was _jealous_. He was also being bloody _foolish_. They'd had sex. Once. That was the deal. So it was special, fantastic even, but that's all it was. Sex. With a stranger. John was filled with disgust at his emotional reaction to a one-night stand.

That night, John again heard a knock on his door. He opened it, shook his head at his neighbour in exasperation and shut the door in his face. Quieter this time.

The next night, the stranger again knocked on John's door but this time he was allowed to enter. John opened the door, looked at his neighbour, turned around and walked into his bedroom. He got into bed and turned on his side, facing away from the bedroom door, knees pulled up to his chest in a foetal pose. He heard the front door being shut and locked and a few moments later, the mattress dipped behind him and a slender arm snaked itself around his chest as a warm hand made its way under his t-shirt to splay long fingers on his flat belly. A long, warm body pressed itself against the length and curve of his body, from shoulder to feet, in an act of paralyzing intimacy. Waves of pleasure radiated through his body as the slender hand moved up from his belly to rest on his chest, the palm rubbing slowly in circles on his nipple, fingers gently squeezing and releasing his flesh. John closed his eyes and bit his lip, surrendering to the sensation of being pressed against the body he had craved for a week. But he did not return the touch.

When he awoke, he was alone in bed. Were it not for the faint scent of the stranger's shampoo on the second pillow, he may as well have dreamed that the stranger was in his bed the previous night.

The stranger came to his flat again that night and they stood facing each other in the middle of the living room. The other man looked undecided, studying John's face for _something_. John had been thirsting for his touch for a week and, encouraged by the previous night's closeness, he stood on tiptoe to kiss him but when his stranger's lips didn't move in reciprocation, John's eyes stung from the unexpected rejection.

'Sorry', he mumbled and turned away.

He went into the kitchen and stood clutching the counter, chewing on the insides of his cheeks and blinking back tears. He heard footsteps behind him and then he was being encircled by long, warm arms and his mouth was being invaded by a desperate, searching tongue and he swallowed the breaths and moans of his stranger as they fell into a kiss fraught with need.

That night they had sex. The stranger lay face down on the bed, his hips propped up on a pillow as John draped his body over his and claimed him from behind, slow and deep, biting into his shoulder and digging his fingers into his lover's hips hard enough to bruise as he emptied himself slickly inside the hot, wet passage and cried out his release into the soft, flawless skin on that beautiful back. When he had caught his breath, John prepared himself, turned the other man over and straddled him to slowly impale himself on his long, thick cock and ride him to completion. They lay apart on their backs, utterly spent, panting, staring at the ceiling, tormented, struggling to make sense of this obsession that threatened to incinerate them until, finally, they fell into the nothingness of sleep.

John awoke early the next morning to see a dark, tousled head lying still on the pillow beside his and he leaned over to press a kiss to that lovely face. He had to rush off for class and left a note on the bed. 'Study night tonight. A friend is coming over.'

That evening, John parked his motorcycle in the garage. His friend from Uni dismounted from behind him and they were taking off their helmets when John heard the familiar roar of a Jaguar engine and a minute later was looking at his beautiful neighbour.

'Hello', he said with an open smile.

The stranger looked up, glowered at John and his eyes narrowed as he sized up his friend and then he turned and strode off into the building, leaving a gaping John looking at his back.

'My neighbour', John explained apologetically.

'What a dick', his friend remarked.

'Nah, he's alright. Must be having a bad day.'

'He's gorgeous, though.'

'Hey! I thought you were straight', John laughed.

'_I_ am, but are _you_? After all, you've got Adonis himself living next door. Hmmm?' his friend teased.

'Oh, shut it.'

They headed up to John's flat and pulled out their books. John brought them some tea with biscuits and they settled down to what he hoped would be a productive and uninterrupted study session.

Two hours later, there was a knock on the door. John knew who it was and called out 'It's open.'

The door opened and his stranger stepped in, dressed in pajamas and a t-shirt. He looked at John's friend and then at John and walked into the kitchen.

John sighed and looked at his friend.

'We're going to have to call it a night, mate. Sorry.'

'No need to apologize. I _understand_', his friend laughed. And then winked.

'Fuck off', John said without any bite.

He shut the door behind his friend and went into the kitchen. His lover was leaning against the countertop, looking at his feet, clenching and releasing his fists. John was concerned.

'Hey, what's going on?' he asked softly. He pushed the riotous curls off the high forehead and was disturbed by what he saw.

Hooking a finger under the other man's chin, he lifted his face and then flinched. There was a dark bruise forming on his jaw and the tip of another peeked from under the sleeve of his t-shirt. John pushed the sleeve up and saw the angry marks of a hand whose fingers had obviously dug hard into that pale arm.

'What the fuck! Who did this to you?'

The other man remained silent. John pressed his hands to his chest and ran them down to his ribs when his lover winced and his hand reflexively shot out to close around John's wrist. John lifted his t-shirt to see a third bruise on his right side. His face hardened.

'Goddammit, speak for fuck's sake. Who did this to you? Was it that _bastard_ you've been seeing?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'It does! It does matter, you idiot!'

'Why? Why do you care?' his lover challenged, his stormy eyes searching concerned, blue irises for a reason.

'I just do, alright? Fuck, I don't even know your name but I care about you. I'll kill that _fucker_ if he comes around you again. Is he your boyfriend? I've seen him with you often enough.'

'Oh _please!_ Don't get all jealous and _ordinary_!' The word dripped with disdain.

'Fuck you! If caring makes me ordinary, then I'll fucking be ordinary! And why does it matter if I'm ordinary? I'm just your _fuck_ _toy_, aren't I?' he spat. His lips curled into a sneer. 'Having a bad day? Come over and fuck John. That's what he's for! A fucking man-whore when you need one.'

John turned on his heel to storm into the bedroom, shaking with anger.

The stranger followed John into the bedroom, pushed him down onto the bed, yanked his clothes off and crushed his mouth against John's in a brutal, feral kiss.

Their coupling was violent and savage, a mutual exorcism to purge them of their demons of pain and distrust that had left them bruised and broken. The stranger sucked and scratched and bit John as if marking him as his own. Scorching kisses that wounded rather than caressed. John yanked his lover's hair back to expose the long column of his neck, planting his open mouth on the flawless skin and marking it with his bites and nips, looking at the inflamed skin and feeling an animalistic sense of possession wash over him.

They hurt each other that night, and then did it again, not caring who fucked whom and how many times. When his lover took John with little preparation, only lubing himself before pushing hard into him, John let him. He let his lover use him as he wanted, knowing that the other man needed this. That this was somehow healing. Their cries of agony grew louder and more impassioned before softening to moans of pleasure until they finally fell into an exhausted embrace, finding liberation in the darkness of sleep.

When John awoke the next morning, he heard footsteps in the kitchen. He padded to the bathroom, emptied his bladder and brushed his teeth, freshening up before entering the living room. His neighbour had made tea and was sitting on the sofa, looking up at John. He looked peaceful and John knew he did too. Last night had been cathartic for the both of them. Something was different between them. An unspoken and nameless pledge had been exchanged.

'I hurt you last night…' the stranger said in a sad voice.

John knew he meant more than the physical bruises he had inflicted on his body but dismissed the implied apology with a shrug.

'It's what you needed.'

'Will you always give me what I need?'

'If I can, yes…I don't know.'

They drank their tea in silence and then John spoke.

'What happened yesterday? How did you get those bruises?'

'I got into a fight. Nothing serious.'

'You were punched and manhandled. I'd say that's serious.'

The stranger shrugged. 'I was mugged. Three men. They tried to take my money. I broke a few of their bones. Fair exchange.'

'What were you doing in a part of town where you could be mugged?'

His stranger didn't respond.

'Why won't you tell me your name?'

His lover looked at him for a long minute.

'You can call me Samuel. Samuel Holloway.'

'Is that your real name?'

'No.'

'Then I won't call you Samuel Holloway.'

John reached for a biscuit before continuing.

'You have no qualms about spending nights in my arms but you won't tell me your name.'

'I can't.'

'Why not? And you won't let me tell you my surname. I don't understand.'

His lover sighed.

'You'll be deployed to a war zone. I don't know if you'll come back. If I knew your name, I would look for you. And I don't want to think about anything happening to you. Now, however, I won't be able to find you. And now I can imagine you're safe and alive. If you do come back but don't come looking for me, I can pretend it's because you can't, because you don't know my name.'

'That's very sad, you know.'

'It's perfectly logical.'

'No, it's sad. You think I won't look for you.'

His lover looked down at his tea.

'Do you want me to?'

His question was met with silence.

'Doesn't matter. I will look for you…always', John said flatly.

His lover studied his face solemnly, as though trying to gauge the truth in his words. John tried to break the sombre mood.

'Well, I am not going to call you Samuel. You don't look like a Samuel.'

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the hint of a small smile appear on his lover's face. It was a beautiful thing, made lovelier because it was so rare. His melancholy lover seldom smiled.

'What do I look like, then?'

'Hmmm…I'm not sure...you're unusual. And mysterious. I think you have a unique name but I can't come up with a fictitious one that fits now.'

'So what are you going to call me?'

John thought for a bit.

'OK, I'm going to go with "hey neighbour" if we are ever in company. Unlikely, given you won't go out with me. Ever. It's almost like you never want to be seen with me in public.'

His stranger ignored the unasked question and asked 'And when we're alone?'

'When we're alone, I'm going with…"baby"… No, "my baby".'

His lover considered that.

'Don't like it?' John asked hesitantly, realizing that the saccharine endearment had revealed more of his feelings than he'd intended.

'Why not pick an actual name?'

'One day, you'll tell me your name. And I want that to be the only name by which I call you.'

'You're sure I'll tell you?'

'A guy can hope', John said with a smile.

'_"Hey, neighbour"_ I understand. It's technically accurate. But _"my baby"_...that implies ownership…and affection.'

'It does, doesn't it?' John said casually.

He stepped out onto the balcony, looking out at the gray and bleak London skyline that was still indescribably beautiful. The old and the new. History and modernity. Opposites coming together congruently, in a single, contiguous cityscape. His mind vaguely suggested that he and his stranger were the same - opposites who somehow fitted together effortlessly. He shrugged it off as the random musings of a sex-addled brain.

A moment later, John was caught in an embrace, enveloped in long arms that held him close to a warm chest. His lover reached up to push the hair off his forehead and placed a soft kiss on his temple, holding his lips there till John's skin got all warm and tingly.

'You love London.'

'I do', John said.

'Me, too.'

John turned around and looked up into his stranger's eyes.

'You won't tell me your name or let me tell you mine. You won't give me your phone number or take mine. If I were the insecure sort, I'd think you were trying to get rid of me. And yet, here you are.' He smiled.

'So...I have created an email address - .uk - for you to use. The password is 221bbakerstreet but you can change it. I've created another email address for me - 221a .uk. I've sent you email already so you won't need to remember the address.'

'What's the point of this?'

'If ever we get separated, and something tells me we will,', John paused and swallowed, 'I want us to have a way to reach each other. You don't _have_ to ever write to me but at least I'll know it's not because you _can't_. See? I'm the opposite of you. I _want_ to know.'

He laid his head against his lover's chest, breathing in the other man's scent and wishing he never had to leave those arms. This felt dangerously like love and he was breaking inside. A light drizzle gently sprayed their faces as the chilly London breeze whipped around them, lazy and capricious, and when John shivered, the arms around him tightened and he felt lips press into his hair.

'Come on, let's go inside', a low voice whispered against his ear.

They stepped back into the living room, still holding each other.

'Shower?' John asked and his stranger nodded.

They undressed and stepped into the shower, under a soothing stream of hot water. They kissed each other through the steam, running their hands over their bodies, caressing the slippery skin of their arms and backs until their hands reached down and their fingers curled around each other's cocks. John pressed his open mouth to the taller man nipple as the grip around his shaft tightened. His lover's cock was twitching in his hand and he let out a broken moan as his head fell on his lover's chest. A hand on his shoulder pushed him back a little and his hand around his lover's cock was also disengaged. He looked down to see long, slender fingers of a pale hand wrap around both their cocks and begin stroking them together. Up and down. Hard and soft. Fast and slow. The thumb flicking over their tips, mixing and smearing the clear slick liquid over their cocks. Then stroking fast and hard, over and over, their bodies fused at their mouths and groins, until they both cried out in ecstasy, swallowing their moans and spattering their hot release over that pale hand which continued to stroke them to emptiness.

Their soft cries died against their skin as their racing hearts slowed and they kissed again, wet, sloppy, tender, washing each other and then drying themselves. They stepped out of the shower naked and padded barefoot back to the bedroom, settling under the covers for a lazy morning. Lips met, tongues teased and breaths mingled as they swallowed each other's moans and sighs, enjoying each other with touches, kisses and caresses and finally fell back on the bed, breathless.

'I can't seem to stop kissing you', John panted, running his fingers down his lover's face.

He pulled the covers back to take in the sight of his lover's body and ran his fingers admiringly down the planes of his chest and the gentle swell of his lean muscles.

His fingers hovered over the other man's hip bone, tracing a circular pattern into the sharp edge, dipping into his concave belly, caressing the translucent skin stretched tight over a too-thin body.

'You know, a tattoo would look so beautiful on you. Right here. Where no one can see it except m…your lovers.' he amended quickly.

'I was considering getting a tattoo of a scorpion.'

'What? Why? Why a scorpion?'

'I was told I am poisonous. And I sting.'

'Who's the sick fuck who told you that?'

'My boyfriend.'

John swallowed.

'Before we broke up', he added.

'Well, anyone who tells you you're poisonous is a bloody imbecile and a liar. You're not.'

'No? Then what am I? How do…_you_ see me?' his lover's voice faltered.

John smiled and lifted his hand to run his fingers through dark, silken curls. Unruly. Tousled. Absolutely lovely.

'I see you as a…as an eagle. Or a phoenix. Or a unicorn. No…an amalgam, then. A fiery, winged unicorn. Mythical, magnificent, majestic, graceful, mysterious, extraordinary. Fragile and yet strong. A survivor rising from the ashes.'

'You should quit medicine and become a writer. You're just a romantic.' his lover huffed in embarrassment at his fulsome narrative.

'An incurable one, yes', John agreed with a laugh.

'You're also silly.'

'Never denied it!' he laughed again.

And then his expression changed and his voice turned earnest. 'Maybe it's all my imagination but I really do see you like that. There's more to you than you allow people to see. I know it.'

Their hands touched, threading their fingers together, pulling apart and running over their bodies, through their hair. Their lips began pressing against their cheeks, necks, earlobes, mouths, chins, necks, in a heavy, tactile exchange of caresses.

'I want to ask you something. May I?' John asked.

'Depends on the question. You're allowed to ask if I'm allowed to refuse an answer.'

'Fair enough…Is that posh man your boyfriend?'

'Why is that important?' his lover countered, looking uncomfortable.

'I don't know…I don't know what to make of you being here. I see that man visit you three times and then you come here. I don't know what that makes him…or me.'

The other man looked at John intently, as if deciding how much he was ready to reveal.

'He's not my boyfriend.'

'A friend, then?'

'An enemy. Archenemy, in fact.'

'People don't have archenemies in real life. Especially archenemies who drop for a cuppa.'

When his lover didn't speak, John continued. 'So, what am I?'

'I don't know...I haven't thought about it. You're just you. Why does everything have to have a label?'

'OK...alright...no labels...I'm me and you're you.'

When John spoke after a long silence, his voice was faltering.

'Do you _like_ me…at all? Or is it just the sex?'

His lover contemplated the question.

'My mind's like an engine, racing out of control. Sex provides a fleeting respite, a temporary cessation of all thought at the moment of orgasm. But around you my engines simply…die…They come to _rest_. With you, I experience peace. It's the same effect. Better actually,'

'Better than sex? How come?'

'Because you are still here after the orgasm ends.'

They lay quietly, caressing and touching until John spoke again.

'Why don't you like to kiss?'

'It's too intimate. Too naked. You can fuck with just your body, but you can't kiss without your mind. And if I were given to poetry, I'd go so far as to say you kiss with your soul. It makes me feel vulnerable. Exposed.'

'And yet you kiss me...'

'And yet I kiss you...'

They spent the day watching Doctor Who, crappy talk shows and Star Trek. John read a bit of his novel while his lover read the newspaper, opining on every article he read until John got up and snatched the paper away from him in annoyance. He moved on to John's laptop, using it to research and dissect ongoing police investigations and texting his deductions to New Scotland Yard. He explained his methods speaking rapidly, expecting John to keep up. John listened, fascinated by the scintillating logic and science with which he arrived at his irrefutable conclusions. And John watched, captivated by the fire in his eyes and the pure vitality in his body. His lover had never looked more alive than he did at that moment.

'You're amazing, you know? Just brilliant.'

'You think so?' his lover asked, incredulous at this unexpected endorsement.

'Yes, I do.'

'That's not people usually say.'

'What do people usually say?'

'Freak.'

'Well, people are fucks. And _I_ think you are _extraordinary_. My fiery, winged unicorn', John said, smiling fondly and leaning forward to drop a kiss on the tip of his lover's nose.

John cooked pasta and they ate dinner in silence.

That night, they lay in bed facing each other. John's lover slipped down to press his face to his chest. The room was silent except for the rain pattering steadily against the window and the ragged sounds of their breaths. John ran his fingers through the other man's hair, gently massaging his scalp in circles and pressing kisses to his head. Supple lips closed around his nipple and then opened a bit to pull it in a wet suck, a curious tongue licking the tip into a hard nub and setting John's body aflame with pleasure.

'Aaah…baby, that feels so good', he moaned as his cock swelled.

His lover slipped further down the bed, disappearing under the covers and John cried out when his pajamas were yanked down his legs and he was engulfed by a wet mouth that sucked and licked him gently and reverently in the quiet night until he came undone into that hot, greedy cavern.

The sheets shifted and his lover emerged, looking self-satisfied at having brought John pleasure. They kissed for a long time until John pulled back and whispered 'Take me. Now.'

He opened his legs to his lover who reached for the lube to prepare him.

'No, just do yourself. I'll be fine.'

'I'll hurt you!' his lover protested.

'It's alright', John murmured.

His lover pulled on a condom, lubed himself and briefly tried to slick John and open him up. Then he entered him, again and again, until there was only the sound of their shivering breaths, John's muffled sobs of pain and then a soft cry as his lover went rigid above him, his body jerking erratically and finally going limp as he continued to pulse into John until he was empty. John cradled him against his heart, wrapping his arms and legs around him with his lover still inside him, feeling his spasms subside as he came down from his high. The other man pulled out of him and cleaned them up. They drew close and fell asleep in each other's arms.

Two whole weeks passed and the stranger seemed to have disappeared. John's desire to see him was bordering on an addiction and it was driving him mad. He had knocked on his neighbour's door every evening but there was no answer. He had sent three emails, none of which received a reply. He had tried telling himself that they were _not_ a couple. In fact, they were nothing beyond occasional fuck-buddies. That he had to study and this break was good for him. It didn't help. He had asked the condo concierge if he had any information on the whereabouts of the resident in 221B but was informed, politely but very firmly, that the concierge was not at liberty to divulge information about other residents. _Fuck_.

And then one evening, sixteen days later, there was a knock on his door and he opened it and threw himself into the hungry arms of his tall, beautiful lover. Their kisses were fevered and frantic and John tore his mouth way to look into his lover's eyes.

'You bastard!' he demanded, grabbing the other man's shirt and roughly shaking him. 'Why did you stay away from me?' His breath shuddered as he tried to quell his anguish.

His lover rained soft kisses over his forehead, his temple, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his chin, the soft skin behind his ear, over and over.

'You unfeeling bastard.' His voice was a sob. 'You left me waiting for you. Why do you torment me?'

In answer, his mouth was taken in a sweet, open kiss, every wet lick of his lover's eager tongue a caress, every shared undulation of lips a declaration, an apology, a salve for the hurt he had caused John. They began pulling their clothes off and staggered into the bedroom, falling down on the bed, naked bodies wrapped around and inside each other, giving and taking, until finally they collapsed in a wet rapture and succumbed to the dark depths of sleep.

They woke late the next morning. It was the weekend so they settled down to a lazy brunch.

'What do you want to do today? Bark at the telly all day?'

'Will you spend the day with me?'

'Yes…that _is_ what I had planned', John confirmed, his eyes creased in a fond smile.

'I thought we could go out.'

'You're not serious', John asked incredulously.

'You should know I hate repeating myself.'

'Alright, alright.' John laughed. 'We can go out. What do you want to do?'

'Whatever you'd like to do. You've asked me to go out with you often enough. Surely you have _some_ ideas', his lover said in a gently mocking tone.

'Oh, I have ideas. Lots of them. The question is - will you like them? Or will you get bored and spend the day carping at my _ordinary, dull_ interests?'

'Only one way to find out.'

John grinned, his smile the widest his lover had ever seen on him.

They bought themselves two Oyster cards and got on the Tube. John forced his lover to watch Skyfall with him and patiently sat through an hour of incessant plot and character critiques before he decided he'd had enough. There was only one way to shut his lover up.

'Daniel Craig's arse… bloody hell. Mmm…. gorgeous globes in tight, gorgeous trousers.'

'It's alright', his stranger said dismissively, not overly pleased with John's effusing over another man's anatomy.

'Yours is lovelier, baby. You know that, yeah? I love your arse. I want to squeeze it _all _day', he grinned lasciviously.

'Shut up', the other man said, a shy smile breaking the usually brooding set of his face.

They visited the British Museum where John's stranger spoke to him animatedly of the history behind the Egyptian pharaohs, the legends of the Greek and Roman gods and heroes and lovers whose statues were on proud display in those magnificent galleries. John listened intently until the sight of his lover expounding and gesticulating and dashing from one exhibit to another became more interesting than his illuminating words and John's eyes took on a dreamy look as he watched those plump, soft lips that wouldn't stop moving and imagined kissing them into silence. His stranger noticed John's flagging attention, cleared his throat in mock sternness and smiled when John blinked, breaking out of his sexual reverie and snapped back to the present with a sheepish grin.

They stood before the statue of a naked Heracles and John looked from the statue to his lover and back and then shook his head.

'Nope, I got the better deal', he said mischievously.

His lover bent down to steal a brief kiss and then nonchalantly strode off to study the next sculpture. John's heart clenched.

They walked through the city they loved, their steps keeping time with the rhythm of its pulse, soaking up its energy, loving the charming sights and bustling sounds, their hands coming together instinctively and so naturally. They had a late lunch at an Indian restaurant before resuming their day in the city.

They stopped by a photo booth and took a few pictures of themselves, John pulling funny faces and his lover, by contrast, regarding the camera with all the gravitas of a peeved Alan Rickman. And then they took one more picture. Of them kissing. John bought two copies of all the photographs and gave one copy of each to his lover.

'So you don't forget me.'

'I won't.'

The cloudless, blue sky of the day had slowly turned to a swirl of orange and purple as dusk settled on the city. They had reached Westminster Bridge and looked out at the London Eye, lit up in blue like a colossal, luminous clock, perpetually set to 5:32.

'Hey, you want to go up in the Eye?'

'If you want to, I want to.'

'Why are you being so nice? You're spoiling me, you know?' John giggled and snuggled up to his lover.

They walked to the Eye and a half hour later they were riding up in a capsule, looking out at the London skyline bathed in the magical glow of twilight. They were alone in the capsule.

John turned to his lover. 'This was the best birthday I've ever had', he said.

'I didn't know it's your birthday. I would have got you a present. But I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Happy birthday.'

'I didn't just enjoy myself. This was the _best_ birthday I have _ever_ had. And it's because I spent it with _you_.'

Their lips met in a tender kiss and when they separated, John swallowed and said 'You might think it's too soon. Maybe it is…no, I don't think it's too soon…I don't…all I know is I lo…'

'Not yet', his lover cut him off. 'You won't say that yet.'

'But…'

'No.' He wouldn't relent.

Those were the last words they exchanged as they rode the Tube home and then the lift up to their flats. His lover received a text when they reached their floor and John was shocked at his expression upon reading it. He looked devastated.

'Good night', his stranger muttered, not looking at John, and entered his flat.

'Good night', John said to the closed door of 221B Baker Street.

It was 11 p.m. when John heard a soft knock on his door. He shot out of bed to open it and let his lover in. A hand clasped his wrist and his mouth was covered by his lover's in an agonized, longing, terrified kiss. He pulled away and looked into despairing eyes and then stood on tiptoe to kiss his stranger again. They kissed for a long time. The other man was shivering and his eyes spoke of an inexpressible sadness. And fear. John had never seen him fearful.

'Hey baby, what's wrong? What aren't you telling me?' John was overcome with a sense of foreboding, as though the end was near. 'Please, talk to me, baby. Please!'

His lover said nothing but pulled him onto the bed, into a raw and hungry kiss. They kissed, urgent and tortured, lips pressing and sucking, tongues licking, exploring and surrendering. His lover kissed him as though his life depended on it, as though John were his last gasp of breath, his last lifeline. John pulled off his own t-shirt and undressed his lover slowly, raising his arms to take his t-shirt off as well. He kissed the pale flesh of his neck, nipping his skin and licking over the bruise he knew would form the next day. He kissed his lover's cheeks, his eyes, his eyebrows, his exquisite cheekbones, his temples, his hair. He pressed his mouth back on his lover's, sticking his tongue out to lick those soft lips open and dip into the sweet, wet heat of the mouth he loved. Yes. He loved his stranger. He wasn't allowed to say it but his stranger let him show it with his body.

John pushed his lover onto his back and straddled him. Those long arms were thrown back on the pillow above his head and his chest rose and fell with his heavy, labored breaths. John clasped his bony wrists and bent down to press his lips very softly to his stranger's forehead. He drew his fingers down the length of the other man's arms, over his chest, laying his palm flat against his heart, feeling it beating hard, caressing his nipples, down to his ribs and his flat belly. He shifted lower on his lover's thighs and bent down to retrace the path of his fingers with his mouth, wetly adoring the body under his, every kiss a pledge, a declaration, an unspoken testament to the love he felt for this man and a hopeless attempt to freeze this moment a little bit longer, to make time stand still. He rested his forehead on his lover's belly, biting his lip when, overwhelmed with love, a small sob escaped him and a tear fell onto his stranger's skin. John felt a pair of hands in his hair, lifting his head and he looked up into the saddest eyes he had seen. With a moan he pushed himself up and crushed his mouth to his lover's.

'What are you doing to me?' he cried out, his face buried in his lover's neck. 'Are you leaving me?'

John was flipped onto his back as his lover covered his body with his and wetly anointed his skin with anguished kisses, biting and sucking his flesh on his neck and chest, pulling on his nipples in what John recognized was a primitive and instinctive need for refuge. He whispered tender words of reassurance, stroking his lover's back and caressing those unruly curls as the other man's mouth licked lower and lower, circling into John's navel, licking lower still until it stopped at the waistband of his pajamas. Long fingers hooked into the elastic and his pajamas were pushed down to his knees with a single yank. He kicked them off and felt warm hands pushing his thighs apart and the space between them filled with his lover's body. John gasped and his back arched off the bed as soft lips found his cock and consumed him in a hot, wet, hard suck.

'Wait!' John gasped.

His lover looked up at John who had raised himself to sit up on the bed, facing him. John leaned over and pushed his lover down, so that his head was towards the foot of the bed and pulled off his pajamas, bending down to kiss the long, slender cock that lay nestled in the dark bush between his legs. He lay back down, turning on his side and put a hand on his lover's hips to turn him on his side to face him. His lover understood and they shifted toward each other, bringing their legs closer to their chests and lifting and bending the leg on the outside. John moved his head between his lover's thighs, resting on the inside of his lower thigh, his lips wrapped around his erection while his lover mirrored his position. John sucked his lover, running his tongue around the broad, swollen tip, licking into his slit, tasting him, burying his nose in the skin of his balls and breathing in his musk, his maleness and humming a moan against the shaft in his mouth when he felt his lover similarly caress him at the other end.

He pulled his mouth away for a moment and raised himself on one elbow to reach for the lube, gasping when he felt the wet mouth engulfing him lick around his tip and then suck hard. He smeared his fingers and reached into his lover's cleft, slicking the tender skin in narrowing circles until he reached the small pucker in the middle and pressed his finger against it. He felt his lover exhale around his cock, warm and shivering, and pushed his finger in just a bit, until the first knuckle had breached the ring of muscle. His lover's mouth was still on his cock and the breath on his balls was getting hotter and more erratic.

Bending down again to take his lover's cock back into his mouth, he continued to explore his hole, pushing his finger deeper, pulling it out and pushing it back in till he felt it give a little. Encouraged, he added a second slick finger and then a third, pushing all the way in, feeling his lover's cock twitch in his mouth. When all three fingers were fully embedded in his lover's hole, he started a scissoring action to make his lover relax and open further, running his tongue on the flesh in his mouth and hollowing his cheeks as he bobbed his head up and down, echoing the motion with his fingers buried in his lover's arse. When his fingers unexpectedly brushed over his lover's prostate, a strangled, shuddering moan vibrated around John's cock sending flames of pleasure licking through his body. John felt the tug on his cock slacken and then it fell free of its wet prison as his lover, unable to bear the stimulation on his bundle of nerves, threw his head back and let out a tortured howl of pleasure. John sucked harder and began fucking his lover faster with his fingers.

He felt a hand in his hair, holding his head in place and he relaxed his jaws to allow his lover to move his hips and slowly fuck his mouth, taking him all the way to the back of his throat. John stopped moving so that with every move of his hips, his lover was fucking John's mouth and then pulling back to fuck himself on John's fingers. Over and over. And then John moved his fingers just a bit to brush that bundle of nerves, feeling the ring of muscle clench hard around his fingers and his lover's hips jerked forward sharply, almost gagging John as his mouth was flooded with hot, slick cum and a bit of the searing, white fluid dribbled down the side of his face. Fevered breath blew hard on John's thigh and groin in quivering heaves as his lover continued to pulse his release into his waiting mouth, shaking through wave after glorious wave of ecstasy coursing through his shattered body.

When at last he stopped spurting, John fell back on the bed, panting, one side of his face still wet with saliva and his lover's semen. The other man's breathing slowed and he brokenly moved up on the bed to lie beside John, resting his head on John's outstretched arm. He reached for a tissue and gently cleaned John's face and then pressed a kiss to his forehead.

'John…John…John…' he whispered.

'Baby…I lo…'

John's words were cut off by a mouth that had closed over his in a tender kiss, so soft it was almost not there.

'_Why_ won't you let me say it?' John pleaded in a broken voice. 'You don't have to say it back. Do you _know_?'

'I know, John. I know!' his lover cried. 'Take me. Take me now.'

John pulled on a condom and lubed it up. He moved his body to lie over his lover, pushing his thighs apart and then lifting his legs to rest on his shoulders. He held his cock at his lover's slick entrance and pushed in all the way in one smooth thrust, till his balls were pressed hard against the other man's arse. His stranger's eyes were closed tightly, his face contorted in discomfort. His nails dug into John's back as he bit his lip, fighting against the pain of John's cock stretching him while John held still, allowing his passage to adjust to the thick, hot flesh that had pierced it. A few moments later, his lover let out a long breath through open lips and opened his eyes. He nodded and then John leaned forward, almost bending his lover in half, till his thighs were pressed against his chest and then John began to move his hips. Hard, fast. Snapping into his lover in a violent act of possession and control. And submission.

His lover threw his head back and closed his eyes but John tugged on his hair.

'Look at me, baby. Open your eyes. I want to see you, please', he whimpered.

Gray eyes opened and locked with his as he pounded mercilessly into that hot, wet hole that tightened around his cock at every ingress and loosened when he pulled out, the searing walls of his lover's passage rubbing John's cock, inflaming it with sensitivity until John's pleasure surged through him like a deluge, his cock pulsing and twitching inside his lover as his rhythm broke and his seed gushed hotly into his condom. And he came and came, hard, losing himself in the tempestuous eyes that looked up at him. Beautiful, wet eyes that were wrecked with affection for him.

His lover's legs slipped off his shoulders to wrap around his hips and pull him close. John allowed himself to fall on his lover's chest, trembling through the aftershocks of his orgasm, feeling his heart hammering in his chest as long arms held him close, stroking his back softly, whispering words of tenderness. After a long while, John moved off his lover and pulled off the condom, heavy with his cum, and disposed of it.

They fell into an embrace, facing each other, lips touching and pressing softly, sadly and John felt each kiss was a farewell. He tried to wipe away his lover's tears but they wouldn't stop.

'God, baby, what's going on? Talk to me, please. Why do I feel you're going away? Please, baby.' John was crying too. 'Are you going away? I'm scared. I feel I'm never going to see you again.'

'_Please_, baby, talk to me. Is there anything I can do? Talk to me', he pleaded but his lover didn't say another word. He cradled John's face in his hands and held his gaze, his eyes speaking of his adoration and devotion to John, laced with an unspeakable secret he could not share. He closed his eyes for a long moment and when they opened, the tears had stopped and his eyes had turned to steel and John knew he had lost. This day had been a joining but was now a parting. Opposites. Like the city. Like these two lovers.

John continued to sob into his lover's shoulder, holding on to him helplessly, until desolation and exhaustion took over and he slipped into blessed unconsciousness.

When he awoke the next morning, he was alone in his bed. He heard voices outside his door and opened it to see men in suits walking in and out of his neighbour's flat. They were carrying boxes of stuff, apparently emptying the flat of all traces of its former occupant.

'Hey, what's going on?' John demanded of no one in particular.

The tall, posh man emerged from 221B and walked up to him.

'What's going on?' John repeated. 'Where's the man who lives here?'

'Do you know his name?' the tall man enquired, smugly.

'No…no, I do not.'

'In that case, Mr. Watson, you really needn't concern yourself with your neighbour. It would, in fact, be in your best interests to consign his memory to oblivion.'

'I can't see how my memories are any business of yours. And how…how do you know my name?'

'I know _many_ things, Mr. Watson. Get your medical degree, go serve in the RAMC, find yourself a pretty wife who'll bear you lovely children, live your life the way you had planned and forget that you ever had a neighbour.'

'Seal the door', the tall man instructed his men and pressed the button for the lift.

'Good day, Mr. Watson', he said as the lift doors closed.

John ran his hands through his hair, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

His mobile phone buzzed, announcing the arrival of an email. He pulled it out of his pajama bottoms and saw a new email from .uk.

_I kiss you because I trust you._

He replied immediately.

_Where are you? Will I ever see you again?_

Chapter End Notes

No prizes for guessing who the tall, posh man is. :)


	3. Brilliant Disguise

**Brilliant Disguise**

* * *

Chapter Summary: Enter Daddy Holmes...

* * *

Chapter Notes

Country/city names Dikhsaar, Limaaz, Rishaayat and Kumaan are all made up simply to place our boys in the area so that Sherlock gets to wear long robes and eyeliner :) I love the androgynous look and think he'd rock it, especially as a 21 year old hottie. Whoa! Focus!

Thanks to everyone who is following or has favourited this story and left wonderful comments here and on the other stories. You rock my world!

There's a lot more angst to come but it will all end well.

* * *

Brilliant Disguise – Bruce Springsteen

_I hold you in my arms_

_As the band plays_

_What are those words whispered baby_

_Just as you turn away_

_I saw you last night_

_Out on the edge of town_

_I wanna read your mind to know_

_Just what I've got in this new thing I've found_

_So tell me what I see_

_When I look in your eyes_

_Is that you baby_

_Or just a brilliant disguise_

London

Sherlock Holmes, twenty-one, attended Oxford University, where he was taking dual graduate courses in Computer Science and Chemistry, and spent his off-campus hours at his family's flat at 221B Baker Street. His brooding good looks notwithstanding, people instinctively gave the frosty young man a wide berth everywhere - at Uni, at the grocery store, in his condo building. He enjoyed and actively sought solitude, preferring to compose violin scores, write in his online journal or retreat into the tranquility of his Mind Palace over engaging in vapid conversation with other young men and women his age. He spoke little and smiled even less.

Sherlock Holmes was on break from Uni and he was bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored, _bored_! Cigarettes and Cluedo did little to dispel his ennui. His journal and Mind Palace lay unopened until, one fateful day, he ran into a most intriguing neighbour in 221A. There was something disarming about the short blond man that pierced Sherlock's cold heart and so he resumed writing.

_#1. Met a neighbour today. Lives in 221A. He seems...nice?_

_#2. Ha! I flirted with my neighbour today. Whispered in his ear. He legs almost buckled. He's so obviously attracted to me and looked adorable trying to hide it. What the fuck? Did I just call someone adorable?_

_#3. Learned his name today. John. Dull name. But he seems anything but. Honest and kind eyes. Rather charming. Wants to be a doctor. Certainly has the hands for it. Strong moral principle. But in the Army. So, loyal to Queen and country. Brave also? Or stupid? Mycroft always said bravery is the kindest word for stupidity. I didn't give him my name. I am sure the mystery is killing him but it's entertaining to watch him squirm. He's really quite attractive. Short but very well proportioned. I wonder what his body is like under those terrible, mass-produced M&S clothes he seems to favour. I think I'd enjoy touching him._

_#4. John came over last night. I knew he would. I was waiting. There's something electric between us. I still don't know how I feel about him. I don't KNOW him. We had sex. I sucked him. He fucked me. I asked him to. He kissed me. I let him. Why did I? What is it about him? He's the first man I've kissed since Liam (bastard). I wanted it. __Needed__ it. And then I broke. I cried. And he left. It was Liam all over again. But John came back. And he said things to me I didn't expect him to say. Does he really feel that way? I could see his eyes were honest. Could he genuinely like me? Why would he? Is he just infatuated? And why am I doing this?_

_#5. Mycroft won't leave me alone! I'm not his bloody peon, investigating idiotic jewelry thefts for his rich, fat friends only because he hates any form of legwork. I must speak with Mummy about this. I miss J._

_#6. J wouldn't speak to me in the lift today. In fact, he told me to fuck off. I don't know why he's upset with me. And yet I want to see him again. And again. Don't understand it. Not since Liam have I pursued someone. I'm pathetic. He slammed the door in my face tonight. I don't know why._

_#7. J slammed the door in my face again tonight. Why am I allowing sentiment to cloud my intellect? I don't need J. He serves no purpose in my life. And yet..._

_#8. I may not need him but I want to see him. His eyes speak to me when his lips won't. I am going over again tonight. I know he wants to let me in. I'll keep at it until he finally does. Apparently, I have no dignity left._

_#9. J let me in. Spent the night with him. Just slept in his bed. Held him. Nothing else. I felt strangely at peace. My body felt liquid, as though I had melted against his skin. Find myself wanting to spend more time with him._

_#10. Spent the night with J again. Panicked when he tried to kiss me. He thought I was rejecting him but I wasn't! He fucked me and then I fucked him. I don't know when I last felt so sated._

_#11. Got the three idiots out of trouble yesterday. Toby and Billy should have more sense than to listen to Simon's idiotic idea to take on the poker underground. Fucking idiots. Took a few punches myself for winning back their money. It only took a half hour but fuck – the bruises hurt. J seemed genuinely worried for me last night. And in return, I insulted him. I don't know why I'm cruel to him. And then I hurt his body. Maybe Liam was right. I __am__ poisonous and self-sabotaging. It's like I'm trying to drive J away. I know he'll leave me one day. But he's good with me. He thought Mycroft was my boyfriend. I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing out loud thinking of Myc's expression if he heard that. Why am I cruel to J? It's illogical._

_#12. J likes kissing me. And I like kissing him. Very much. But he'll go away, after all. The army will take him away. Everyone lies and everyone leaves. I won't tell him my name. What's the point? He looks at me with wonder and amazement but I don't know what he sees. He called me his fiery, winged unicorn. A week back, I would find this sort of cloying epithet revolting. Now, I want to hear it again. And again. From his lips. In his voice. Spoken to me. J is not a good influence on me. I feel I'm losing brain cells._

_#13. Spent last night with J and am still in his flat today. Can't remember when I last spent more than a few hours with someone who was not family. What is he doing to me? Am I changing? He forced me to sit through some sci-fi drivel on the telly. His taste in entertainment is truly appalling. I might need to educate him. And he was truly annoyed when I listed all the ways in which the plot was flawed. Apparently, he doesn't care for logic and science. Ironic, considering he is studying to be a man of science. But he's terribly sweet when he's flustered and I might just continue provoking him. I actually enjoy it. His cheeks flush pink, his brows knit and he glowers at me. Quite endearing. Makes me want to kiss his frown away. What the fuck is happening to me! I'm becoming ordinary. He says these things to me, things that make me feel special. And he looks at me like I AM special. No one has looked at me like that for, I don't know, forever? He seems afraid I'll leave him. We are not a couple, so there's no question of leaving. And he should know that. But he seems to think there's more between us. Somehow, I don't like it when his eyes take on that forlorn look. It makes me sad but I don't know why. I want to see him smile._

_#14. Uni is driving me mad! I could teach courses to these idiot professors. Molly's touching me too much these days. I have to set her straight on my sexual preferences. Haven't seen J for two weeks._

_#15. Spent the night with J. He seemed unduly happy to see me again. Why? I didn't think he cared that much. Does he really like me? Why does he like me? I haven't given him anything. And everyone wants something. He doesn't know me yet. Doesn't know that I'm 'clingy' and 'poisonous' as Liam (bastard) never failed to inform me or anyone else who was willing to listen. I suppose J will find out one day and then leave for good. They all do. Or he'll cheat on me like Liam did. They all do. _

_#16. There's something about J that I can't name. I feel the need to be with him. He's breaking me down and I hate it. And yet, I don't hate it. He makes me feel vulnerable and safe. At once uneasy and completely at ease. Fuck. What do I want with him? What does he want with me? I feel he's trying to tell me something when we are together. I don't like being away from him. And I know he wants to be with me. I want to spend all day listening to him, speaking to him, watching him, watching him watching me. I know he watches me when he thinks I can't see him. I like that. A lot. I want to imbibe his smell, his taste. I want to memorize the texture of his hair and the smell of his shampoo. The feel of his skin, the sweat-embossed veins on the back of his hands and on his forearms after we've had sex, the arch of his back and the gentle swell of his thighs. I want to know everything about him. Am I going insane? I suspect he, too, is insane because he's agreed to go out with me._

* * *

Kumaan, Dikhsaar

The sky was a clear indigo at 6 a.m. when Dr. Siger Holmes, Chief of Virology at the World Health Organization, was awakened by his alarm in his room at The Plaza hotel in Kumaan. The fifty-eight year old doctor was in Dikhsaar for the International Congress of Virology at the Kumaan International Convention Centre where he was scheduled to present the keynote address at 9 a.m. that day. After an invigorating run on the treadmill in his hotel gym, he showered, dressed and ordered breakfast which he ate in his room.

He quickly sent his sons, Mycroft and Sherlock, an email.

_Hello boys. I met Suleiman and Fatima yesterday. They miss you and were thrilled to see photographs of you and your mother. Sherlock, Suleiman couldn't believe how tall you've grown and Fatima thinks you need to eat a little more. Mycroft, Fatima thinks you need to eat a little less. I'm sure she was joking._

_I spent about an hour at their home. Karim has grown very tall and is now running a small internet cafe! Sunaina is in high school. The family has very fond memories of the five years they spent with us in Kumaan and got a little misty-eyed when they recalled how they were made to feel like part of the family and not just the help. They also marveled at how easily you both absorbed all things Dikhsaari. Fatima insists you were both almost more Dikhsaari than Karim! It would be nice if you could give them a quick ring._

_I am getting ready for my keynote address at the conference today. _

_Sherlock, ring your mother. She worries about you. I'll be back in London next week._

_-Father_

Picking up his papers, Dr. Holmes shut the door to his room and called for the lift at 8 a.m.; it was a thirty minute drive to the Convention Centre and he expected to be greeted downstairs by his driver from the WHO. The lift was slow to arrive and he was joined by three men in long robes who stood worryingly close to him. The lift dinged and its doors opened. As he stepped inside, he felt a minute prick to his shoulder and a few seconds later, strong arms held him upright as his body sagged and the walls of the lift swam in his vision before the world darkened around him.

* * *

London

Four days after Dr. Holmes' scheduled keynote address, Mycroft Holmes, twenty-nine, Permanent Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was readying to leave his office in the evening when he saw his assistant at the door, quizzically holding out a sealed manila envelope marked "_For Mycroft Holmes' eyes only_".

When his assistant had left, Mycroft opened the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of papers comprising photographs and what seemed to be bank statements. Photographs of Dr. Siger Holmes shaking hands with a man in a long gray robe and a turban with diagonal blue-and-white stripes wrapped loosely around his head. They were surrounded by six men, all similarly attired. A set of statements for an offshore bank account showed a series of very large deposits from undisclosed sources. Another sheet listed a history of the dates and times when the account had been accessed, all traced either to the mobile phone or laptop of one Dr. Siger Holmes.

Mycroft slumped in his chair, puffing his cheeks and forcefully emptying his lungs in a long, resigned breath. He knew exactly what this "evidence" was designed to imply.

He quickly locked his door and photocopied every document. Unbuttoning his suit jacket and waistcoat, he lifted his shirt to tuck the copies into the waistband of his trousers, spreading and flattening them around his stomach and back. He pulled his shirt down again, buttoned his waistcoat and jacket and patted them down making sure that there were no discernible protrusions in the fabric.

Shortly thereafter, Mycroft was summoned by the Rt Hon Seamus Rivers MP, Secretary of State for Defence. When Mycroft entered his office, Rivers was standing by his desk, holding up an identical envelope marked "_For Seamus Rivers' eyes only_".

'What the fuck is going on, Holmes?' he demanded. Mycroft saw the same photographs and bank statements strewn on Rivers' desk.

They heard a hesitant knock on the door and Mycroft's assistant poked his head in, holding out his envelope. Rivers snatched it from the other man, slammed the door shut and locked it.

'You know as much as I do, Sir.'

'I have no option but to raise this with the PM and Cabinet as a threat to national security', Rivers snapped, shaking the envelope at Mycroft. 'Your father, it would seem, is in collusion with Dikhsaari rebels. I will not have your personal connection to this issue tainting any investigation we conduct. And there _will_ be an investigation. You are, therefore, relieved of your duties with immediate effect. You are not to be seen on these premises until officially summoned. Your Level 2 clearance has been revoked and your computer has been impounded. You will turn in your access card and mobile phone to me. Right now. Security will escort you out of the building and you will function as a member of the civilian class until further notice. Until _I_ deem otherwise. Is that understood?' Rivers snarled.

Mycroft's mien remained inscrutable as Rivers ran his papers through the shredder leaving one official copy - Rivers'. He pulled out his government-issued Blackberry and access card and set them down on Rivers' table.

'Is. That. Understood.' It was not a question this time.

'Yes.'

'Yes, what?'

'Yes...As you have just informed me, I am now functioning as a member of the civilian class and do not, therefore, deem it necessary to address you as "Sir", Mr. Rivers.'

Rivers' jaw tightened and he buzzed his assistant. 'Now', he snapped.

Two burly men in suits had entered the office and stopped on either side of Mycroft. They patted him down, checking for any Government articles he may have secreted on his person. His heart stopped as their hands ran over his torso and when they reached his hips and thighs, he sent a silent thank you to his tailor for the perfectly fitted bespoke waistcoat and jacket that held the concealed papers snugly against his skin. He turned and walked out of the office. The two men escorted him to a waiting car that drove him to his flat.

Sherlock returned from an enchanting day out in London with his…with John. John had wanted to say the words but he had stopped him, knowing he was not ready to say them back and not wanting to be obligated to. Something ineffable, something precious had taken shape between them but he was not ready to take it forward. John had nudged his heart open again, just a crack, and shown him that it might just be safe to let someone else in…and let himself be loved again. But his scars were still raw. And his blossoming affection for John terrified him. So he dealt with his crippling fear of intimacy the only way he knew how – with deflection and avoidance.

And when the lift opened on the twenty-second floor, his phone buzzed with a text message from his brother, Mycroft, and his world crashed.

_Father is in trouble. MH _

As soon as he entered 221B, he texted Mycroft.

_Back at Baker Street. SH_

_Ten minutes. A car will be _

Exactly ten minutes later, a black car with dark, opaque windows was waiting for him, its idling engine emitting a low purr in the quiet night. He got in and saw his brother sitting by the window, his face drawn with worry. Mycroft wordlessly handed the sheaf of papers over to him. Sherlock scanned the photographs and bank statements, instantly inferring their significance and returned to the photographs to study them closely. His keen eyes darted across the figures of his father and the local men, calculating and cataloging until he finally picked one - the picture of his father shaking hands with the Dikhsaari warlord, clasping the other man's hand with both hands. Holding it up to his mobile phone, he zoomed the camera in and took pictures of all exposed parts of his father's body – face, neck, hand, wrist. He hunched over his phone and studied each image, zooming in further, looking for something. Three minutes later he held his phone up to Mycroft.

'This is staged. He's been taken', he said flatly.

Mycroft took his phone and looked at the image. 'Indeed.' He was impressed.

The zoomed-in picture showed a distorted image of a hurried scribble in very small letters on the inside of his father's left wrist. "Vatican Cameos" it said.

'I didn't think he knew it was our code for trouble at school.'

'_Your_ code, Sherlock', Mycroft corrected him. 'I was never in trouble at school. But yes, he did. And he knew we'd remember.'

'Furthermore,' Sherlock swallowed and continued, 'these men are white. Compare the skin tone of their hands with that of their faces - make-up and they've bungled it up.'

Mycroft observed the photograph closely. 'Yes, you're right', he hummed in agreement. He seemed unwilling to say much more in the car.

'Does Mummy know?' Sherlock asked.

'No, I haven't told her.'

'Let's keep it that way. How do we get him back?' Sherlock asked.

'We'll think of something. It's best if you move into my flat until this is sorted out.'

'Yes. But I…need a few hours…please. Unfinished business. I will text you when I'm ready.'

'Alright.' Mycroft didn't argue. He knew Sherlock almost as well as his brother knew himself. It had to be something _critically_ important to Sherlock if he said "please", if he felt the need to address it now, when their father was in grave danger. He wondered if it had anything to do with Sherlock's neighbour when the car stopped again in front of the Baker Street condo to let him out.

When Sherlock entered 221A, a disconsolate John flew into his arms dropping wet, desperate kisses on his face, his mouth, his neck, his chest and their lovemaking was broken and aching as their sweat and saliva mingled with their shared tears. He saw fear in John's eyes born of the realization that his lover was going away. His desperate and naked longing stripped Sherlock's defences to his core but he could not say the words. He spoke to John with his eyes and hoped he could see that Sherlock understood and that, to some small degree and in his own way, Sherlock felt something too.

Sherlock's mind was a raging morass of confusion and conflict as he vacillated wildly between telling John everything and telling him nothing. And then he closed his eyes and retreated into himself for a few moments. When he opened his eyes, his mind was made up. He would say nothing.

His tears stopped but John's didn't and he held him through his heartbroken sobs, running his fingers soothingly through his blond mop, murmuring soft words of understanding until finally John was overcome with grief and exhaustion and fell into a fitful sleep. He carefully disengaged from John's embrace, pulled the covers up to his chin and placed a soft kiss to his forehead before turning around and shutting the door to 221A Baker Street behind him.

Sherlock sent Mycroft a text.

_Heading to Molly's. Need to look into something. SH_

He showered and dressed, packed his things - his laptop, a change of clothes and his mobile phone - and locked the door to 221B behind him. As he walked to the lift, it felt as though a fragile connection remained like a silken thread of sentiment stemming from his chest, seeking and finding its journey's end in the heart of the man sleeping behind the closed door of 221A. It was trying to pull him back.

His heart was heavy as he walked through the deserted lobby and stepped out onto the street, the air smothering him, thick with portent. A light drizzle pattered on the pavement as an eerie stillness pervaded his body, at odds with the cacophony in his mind, and he had a vague premonition that the coming days were going to be the toughest of his hitherto privileged young life.

Sherlock hailed a taxi and headed for Molly's flat, unmindful of the unearthly hour, sending her a text to round up their coterie – a trio of computer nerds whose abject lack of social skills was exponentially - and happily, given his immediate needs – offset by their formidable talents in the field of hacking. These oddball associates had somehow coalesced around Sherlock at Oxford and followed him around everywhere. He couldn't shake them off and, after a while, simply stopped trying.

Twenty minutes later he was seated on her sofa, flanked by twin brothers Billy and Toby Gregson, Molly Hooper and Simon Rutherford. These four felt an unswerving loyalty to their curly-haired leader - Molly because she was hopelessly in (unrequited) love with the dashing devil and the boys because Sherlock had saved them from being beaten, or worse, having their fingers cut off by thugs, by winning back the thousands of dollars they had lost in a badly misjudged poker game. With Sherlock at their centre, these five formed a redoubtable quincunx of stealth Internet geekery and investigative dexterity.

Sherlock explained his father's situation to them, taking them through the photographs and bank statements and showing them his father's hastily scrawled message of distress. The team got to work.

Billy and Toby scanned the photographs into their computers and began an extensive search for the identity of the men in those images using facial recognition software and hacking into the MI6 and CIA databases, poring over photographs and profiles and suspected activities, any scrap of information they could find.

Simon and Molly meanwhile sneaked into the international banking systems - SWIFT, Fedwire, RTGS, CHIPS - anything at all. Molly quickly modified her pattern-matching computer program to efficiently scour thousands of transactions in an attempt to locate the source of the wire deposits into the offshore account supposedly owned by Sherlock's father. The transactions had bounced over hundreds of servers and nodes across the world before landing in the account and tracing their origin was a lengthy and arduous process.

While his team clacked away at their keyboards, Sherlock alternated between standing at the window, smoking a cigarette and running his own searches on his laptop. A few hours later he watched the skies part as dawn broke over London, interwoven horsetails of white and smalt and saffron dissolving into hazy sunshine as a new day began. He was mildly astonished when, without warning, his thoughts turned to John and he wrote what he knew would be his last journal entry for a while.

_#17. Spent yesterday with J. It was his birthday. I already miss him. There's a physical void inside me, like I'm hollow, when he's not around. It's an unfamiliar feeling. I know he was about to say he loves me. How can he say that? We haven't known each other very long at all. In any case, I resent those words. They mean nothing to me anymore. It's just a meaningless platitude. But J means something to me. A lot, actually._

The blond man had somehow become an abiding presence in Sherlock's thoughts. He pulled out his mobile phone and sent John an email from .uk.

_I kiss you because I trust you. _

Almost immediately, he received a reply.

_Where are you? Will I ever see you again?_

He pictured John's brows bunched and raised, his blue eyes wide and wet with desperate hope and Sherlock's heart lurched. No! He could not afford to get distracted. Steeling himself with a low growl of annoyance, he turned back to his laptop.

By noon, they had made some headway. Sherlock crushed his fifth cigarette in the ashtray and listened.

'Only one of these men, this young chap, is Dikhsaari but we found no information on him. The man shaking your father's hand is Darius Broadchurch, ex-SAS, now a mercenary for hire. Operates independently - no known affiliation to any particular organization. The others are also European mercenaries who seem to be working with Broadchurch on this particular mission. They appear to have based themselves in Dikhsaar probably to give the impression that your father has been kidnapped by local warlords', said Billy.

'The emails all originated from a pool of IP addresses localized to the city of Rishayat, around 150 kilometers from Kumaan on the Limaaz-Kumaan highway. Those coordinates map to a small limestone building, two storeys high, in a crowded section of the city', Toby added.

'One more thing', Billy said with a triumphant glint in his eye. 'We have transcripts of emails from Broadchurch's mailbox. But they're in a language we can't understand. Most probably to reinforce the impression of a local hand behind the kidnapping.'

'Remind me to rescue you from your next poker disaster. Or maybe I should just teach you to win and save myself the trouble', Sherlock deadpanned.

Meanwhile, Simon and Molly had traced the wire transfers back to an obscure bank in Kumaan. Their findings seemed to indicate that the transactions to the Kumaani bank had originated from Europe but they needed time for further analysis to narrow the actual source financial institution.

Sherlock could see that his band of misfits was close to dropping off from fatigue and when he ordered them to sleep, they gratefully obeyed. Molly went into her bedroom while Simon crashed on the sofa and the twins threw a blanket on the floor and the fearsome foursome was asleep within minutes. He lit another cigarette and started studying the emails while his troops rested.

Sherlock's phone buzzed with an email notification. It was from John.

_Just wanted to let you know that I'll be getting my medical degree tomorrow. Didn't get a chance to tell you before you left. I was actually hoping you'd be my guest at the ceremony. Things are happening here. It's all very sudden. Thought I'd be deployed to Kosovo but they're sending me to Limaaz General Hospital instead. There've been some skirmishes in the area and the RAMC are short-staffed. Leaving tonight for a five year tour. Might get moved around in the area. I'll get a month off every eighteen months._

_John_

Sherlock began to wonder if there was any science behind the concept of destiny.

Although stripped of his official access, Mycroft retained an extensive personal network within the government and the Army, people he knew he could call on in a pinch, people he would trust with his life. And while Sherlock and his ragtag associates conducted their investigations in the virtual universe, he began his own machinations in the real world.

General Robert Foster of the SAS was a close friend of Siger Holmes from Uni and also godfather to the Holmes brothers. Foster was currently stationed in Kumaan and Mycroft telephoned him from a secure line and presented all the information he had while Foster listened.

When he finished, Foster said 'Tell me what you need.'

'I need to get Father out of there. And I need to think. I'll ring you again tomorrow.'

'We'll get him out, Myc', Foster said and hung up.

Mycroft rang his brother and asked him to come over to his private office. Sherlock caught a taxi from Molly's and twenty minutes later, stood before a nondescript building with no identifying plaques - the ultra-secret, ultra-exclusive Diogenes Club.

When he was in Mycroft's office, Sherlock asked 'How _private_ is this private office?'

'It's sound-proofed. I had it swept for bugs and other surveillance devices before you arrived. We can speak without fear of being observed or overheard.'

'Alright, then. The emails are in Dikhsaari. The word "DaakTar" appears in almost all the emails. Broadchurch is writing to another man he calls "spider"; the emails indicate that this spider would introduce him to a western doctor who was in possession of a "medicine" that's capable of providing "mass healing" to entire populations. In his more recent communiqués, Broadchurch has grown impatient because the doctor's not cooperating and hasn't yet handed over the medicine. He's also annoyed at the spider's insistence that the doctor not be harmed. Otherwise, he is very willing to _coax_ the doctor to spill his secrets. So, what does all of this have to do with Father?' Sherlock asked.

'Sherlock', Mycroft sounded grave. 'There's something you don't know about Father. You, Mummy, the WHO and most of the world, really. Father's working with the Ministry of Defence. He's leading a team of the nation's top scientists in researching a biological weapon – a deadly, man-made virus - in an attempt to develop a retro-virus. There won't be any official rescue attempt because, as you have doubtless surmised, this "evidence" is designed to demonstrate that Father is colluding with Dikhsaari terrorists. He's going to be accused of treason. Rivers is already working that angle. We need to speak to Foster. We have to get him out.'

Together they called General Foster again. Mycroft synopsized their evidence and conclusions and also gave him the coordinates of the building in Rishayat from where Broadchurch's emails originated.

Then Foster spoke.

'Alright. I looked up this location while you were talking. Turns out our boys have been watching it – there's been some unusual activity for the past couple of weeks. Seems to be some kind of hub. We have a friendly who does odd jobs for the men in this building. Here's what I think. I pick five of my best men. We launch a stealth extraction. Clean, precise. Under cover of night. In and out in ten minutes. Siger may be at this location but we don't know yet', he cautioned. 'We will need to know exactly where he's being held. And seeing as we have no idea, I suggest we observe the hub for a day or two and see who's going in and out and where. We can't use British intel – this one's got to be completely off the books.'

Mycroft's calm exterior was showing fissures. 'Father has already been in captivity for _five_ days. We don't _have_ a day or two more', he said with thinly veiled impatience.

'We need to get one of our men in', Sherlock interjected, looking down at the photographs. 'This one', he said, tapping the face of a young man. 'He's clearly the newest in the group. He's young, looks uncomfortable, unsure. Eager to please. He's a local but stands close to Broadchurch in every photo. He may not have the information but will know where to get it. We have to get to him somehow.' He stopped and when he looked up at Mycroft, his brother knew that Sherlock was about to suggest something outrageous.

'Brother, you have to send me in. Get me there and I'll think of something.'

Mycroft was taken aback. 'Have you lost your mind? You are _not_ trained for this, Sherlock! I cannot…I _will_ not put you in a dangerous situation like that.'

'Your brother is right, Sherlock. I understand you are concerned but this will put you in harm's way but won't guarantee Siger's safety. It's a doomed mission. Trust me, son', Foster tried to reason with him.

'No! Father continues to be in danger while we sit here dawdling!' Sherlock's voice rose and he slammed his fist into the wall. 'Mycroft, you and I can easily pass for locals. We speak Dikhsaari fluently. We can think on our feet. And _yes_, we _know_ you've trained for and actually seen combat with the Army Reserve and I haven't. But _you_ can't go because Rivers will be watching you! I can! I'm no one. Just a university student. But I am around the same age as this Dikhsaari chap. I'll think of something to get you Father's location. I don't know how just yet but I _will _come up with something. Send. Me. In.'

'Shut it, Sherlock! This is madness! I need to think about this. Let me talk to Rob alone. Keep your phone close.'

Sherlock stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. He stepped out onto the street for a smoke and noticed that the flame of his lighter flickered unnaturally although there was no wind. Then he saw that the flicker ran down to the lighter itself, and the hand holding it. He dropped his hand and balled and opened his fist repeatedly as he tried to calm his nerves. When he clicked his lighter open again his phone buzzed. It was Mycroft.

When he was back in Mycroft's office, his brother spoke.

'Sit. Rob and I have spoken about our options.'

'And?' Sherlock demanded impatiently, prowling like a caged beast.

'You're going in. You fly tomorrow night under an alias. London - Mumbai - Kumaan. Rob's man will meet you at Kumaan airport. He will fill you in on the details when you land.'

'Get me a passport in the name of Samuel Holloway.'

'Why? Never mind…You will have seven days to get Father's location. If, in that time, you have not been able to procure any information, you will be pulled out.'

'Seven days? That's not enough!'

'I don't care, Sherlock. You volunteered to go in and those are my _non-negotiable_ terms for allowing you to do so. I am not about to risk two members of my family. The longer you are undercover the more dangerous your situation becomes. Rob's men will be watching you and they will pull you out in seven days, _whether or not_ we have Father's location.' Sherlock could tell from Mycroft's voice that he would not be swayed.

'Alright. Let's do it.'

Sherlock went back to his brother's flat. His things from 221B Baker Street had been delivered there. He packed a suitcase with a few clothes, his laptop and his mobile phone. Looking through his wallet to empty it of all inessential items, he came across a wad of paper stuck in one of the sleeves and pulled it out – his copy of the photos from that last evening they spent together. His eyes grew wistful for a moment but he folded them carefully and placed them in one of the boxes. He could not afford to have anything identifying on his person. He would not contact John. He could not hope for anything with John. Because there was no guarantee he would return alive. He wrote one last journal entry.

_#18. I don't know if I'll ever see J again. Goodbye, John._


	4. Throwing it all away

**Notes:**

Chapter Summary: They meet again...

Italicized text indicates dialogues in Dikhsaari. Unfortunately, I am unable to manipulate font styles...

* * *

**Chapter 4 – Throwing it all away**

_Throwing it all away – Genesis / Phil Collins_

_Need I say I love you, need I say I care_

_Need I say that emotions, something we don't share_

_I don't want to be sitting here, trying to deceive you_

_Cos you know I know baby, that I don't wanna go._

_We cannot live together, we cannot live apart_

_That's the situation, I've known it from the start_

_Every time that I look at you I can see the future_

_Cos you know I know babe that I don't wanna go._

_Throwing it all away, Throwing it all away_

_Is there nothing that I can say to make you change your mind_

_I watch the world go round and round, and see mine turning upside down_

_You're throwing it all away._

_Now who will light up the darkness, who will hold your hand_

_Who will find you the answers, when you don't understand_

_Why should I have to be the one, who has to convince you_

_Cos you know I know baby that I don't wanna go._

_Someday you'll be sorry, Someday when you're free_

_Memories will remind you that our love was meant to be_

_Late at night when you call my name, the only sound you'll hear_

_Is the sound of your voice calling, Calling after me._

Sherlock landed at Kumaan airport and was met by Sergeant Chris Ryan who drove him to the SAS base. When they arrived, he was immediately enveloped in the warm embrace of General Foster.

'Sherlock, my boy! You've grown since I last saw you! Come; meet the chaps on the extraction team. You've already met Chris. These fine men are Sergeants Bill Murray and Geoffrey Bowen, Warrant Officer David Cavendish and Captain Victor Trevor. Chaps, meet Sherlock Holmes, my godson.'

Sherlock shook hands with the men and gave each a controlled nod and brief smile but his eyes lingered on Victor Trevor and his smile faded. Trevor was a little taller than Sherlock with the short blonde crop of an army man. His broad shoulders swept down to a narrow waist and hips and long, svelte legs. Brown met gray as they held each other's gaze a second longer than socially necessary and the air suddenly seemed electric with a thrumming undercurrent of sexual awareness. Instant, undeniable and disquieting. Sherlock turned away.

Foster noticed Sherlock looked wan.

'Chin up, son. If anyone can pull Siger out, it's these men. I trust them with my life or I wouldn't trust your father's to them.'

Foster unfurled a detailed aerial photographic map of the city of Rishayat over half his table and spread out a series of surveillance photographs over the other half.

'The target has been seen here, here and here', he said, tapping three different points on the map, all within a 2 kilometer radius of the hub. This', he said, his finger pressed to one of the three locations, 'is the market. He has made one trip to the market since we started watching him two days back. He comes out for a smoke thrice a day, around eleven-hundred, eighteen-thirty and twenty-one hundred hours. Always stands at this corner and never takes longer than 7 minutes to finish his cigarette. He always talks to someone on his mobile phone while on break.

'We have a friendly in Rishayat, Ali, who does odd jobs for them, deliveries and such. Never enters the building. Just knocks and hands over his delivery to them. He'll say he has to go out of town for a week and introduce you as his nephew to take over in his stead. For one week. You've got to get into this young fellow's head. Think you can do it?'

'Yes', Sherlock nodded and Foster continued.

'We'll get you in but once you've made contact, you'll be on your own. We'll outfit your phone with a transmitter and Cav here will be tuned in to your frequency. Two teams - Murray-and-Ryan and Trevor-and-Bowen - will keep a twenty-four hour watch on the building in twelve-hour shifts. The market will be your pickup and drop off point. When you have Siger's location, you should somehow get to the market and you'll be pulled out. Questions?'

'Who's watching him now in Rishayat?' Sherlock asked.

'Ali. He lives two blocks from the hub', Foster replied.

'OK. Good. But...don't wait for me to get to the market. Watch for anything I leave or drop outside the building. I'm going to have to improvise so watch for _anything_', Sherlock said.

'We've got your back, mate', Trevor said. 'Just tell us where he is and we'll get him out.'

Sherlock looked at the five men. All under thirty, their uniforms hiding the wiry strength of their lean, muscular bodies and their faces relaxed in deceptively genial smiles. Sherlock knew these SAS men were among the toughest in the Army and allowed himself a small, hopeful smile of his own that morphed into a yawn. He had not slept in 72 hours and his body was showing signs of exhaustion, worsened by the two long flights from London to Mumbai and then to Kumaan. Captain Trevor took him to his quarters to grab some shut-eye before they left for Rishayat. Sherlock awoke five hours later and checked his mobile phone. He was surprised to see an email from John. He read it and his shoulders sagged.

_Me again. I don't know who you are but I want you to know me. _

_John Hamish Watson, twenty-four, soon to be a doctor in the RAMC. I love you. I wanted to say this to you while holding your hands and looking into your eyes. You wouldn't let me do that but you can't prevent me from writing it now. News is that the Limaaz area is extremely volatile – over a hundred civilian casualties in the past fortnight. We may never meet again so I wanted you to know that you are loved. By me. I love you. _

_You would ask how I feel confident that this is love. I have no way of measuring or proving this. All I know is that I want to be with you for as long as you would have me. And if you don't want me, that's alright too. I'll still think of you every day. I call that love. And so, I love you._

_I love you. _

_John._

His teeth dug into his lower lip hard enough that the blood was chased away and rushed back into a red cleft when he released it. _Stay away from me, John. I'll only hurt you._ He blew out a shivering breath to empty his lungs and squeezing his eyes shut, he consigned all thoughts of John to a dark corner of his mind. He showered and dressed and an hour later, the five SAS men and Sherlock sat in a Land Rover and Cavendish began the five hour drive to Huraayatin, a small town off the Limaaz-Kumaan highway and an hour's drive from Rishayat.

When they arrived in Huraayatin, they were met by Ali and taken to a small shack where they stripped out of their civvies and changed into the native garb - the standard Dikhsaari _shalwaar-kameez_, a long tunic over matching roomy trousers, and turbans of different colours and patterns that Ali helped them wrap loosely around their heads as was the local custom.

Sherlock took off his shirt and jeans and stood in his boxers, looking down at the clothes laid out for him. A black _shalwaar-kameez_ with a chequered red and white turban. His head snapped up in dismay when suddenly the face of a blonde man with deep blue eyes and a shy, adoring smile flashed in his mind. _NO! _He shouted inwardly and drove the vision away. When he came back to the present, he was looking into the sienna eyes of Captain Victor Trevor.

'Everything OK?' Trevor asked.

'Yes...yes. Everything's OK', Sherlock mumbled, unconvincingly.

'Focus, Sherlock. We can't fuck this up.' Trevor's voice was cold, commanding as he watched Sherlock through narrowed eyes.

'I won't', Sherlock snarled.

Sherlock had noted from the close-ups of their young target that he wore the traditional eyeliner or _surma _popular with men in the region. As instructed, their guide had brought a new box of _surma _which he handed over to Sherlock. When he was done lining his eyes, Sherlock turned around to see his colleagues gaping at him. His stormy irises were mesmerizing, brilliantly outlined against his skin which he had darkened slightly with makeup.

'Fuck, you look more Dikhsaari than the locals!' Ryan was gaping at Sherlock.

Trevor went up close to Sherlock and spoke in a low voice that only the two of them could hear. 'So fucking sweet', he murmured. 'If we survive this, and you're into that kind of thing, I want to take you…', his breath fanned hot against Sherlock's ear, his naked desire making Sherlock swallow uneasily, '…to dinner.'

Sherlock turned away, not sure how he felt about Trevor's blatant sexual proposition.

'Focus, Trevor. We can't fuck this up', he rasped.

'I won't', Trevor said. 'And you haven't said "no"', he noted softly, with a small smile of victory. Then he snapped back into troop-leader mode. All business.

'Alright, chaps. Let's move out', he barked.

The SAS men packed their disassembled equipment into worn, unremarkable duffel bags made with the local fabrics. There was nothing on their person to attract attention.

The six men boarded a long-distance bus with their guide and settled in for the hour-long drive to Rishayat.

They alighted at the Rishayat central bus depot and walked the two kilometres to the observation point Ali had picked out for them. They set up their equipment in a small flat on the first floor of a building a block away from the hub, the limestone building from where Broadchurch's emails had originated. They had a diagonal line of sight to this building over a cross street.

Cavendish took first watch, his binoculars trained on the front door of the hub. The building seemed calm with no visible signs of activity. An hour later, though, when it was coming up on eighteen-hundred hours, their target emerged from the building for a smoke. Seventeen forty-five hours. Early today. Six minutes and twenty-three seconds later, he crushed his cigarette against the building wall and went back inside. The team waited patiently, watching. At twenty-one hundred hours, their target again stepped out for his last smoke of the day.

* * *

The following day around noon, Sherlock and Ali walked up to the white limestone building. Sherlock had worn a crimson _shalwaar-kameez_ with a black turban. Ali knocked on the ochre door and it was opened by the young target.

'Salaam alaikum, Rasheed', Ali greeted him in Dikhsaari. 'How are you, my boy? This is my nephew, Saahil.'

'Salaam alaikum', Sherlock said in perfect Dikhsaari, looking up shyly and quickly averting his gaze to look down at the ground.

'He's a very quiet boy. Would you call Darioush-sir? I just want to tell him that Saahil here will bring your deliveries while I'm away.'

'Where are you going?'

'I have to visit my father. He's taken ill and needs me by his side for a week, till my sister arrives. Saahil is not very bright but he can manage simple tasks like delivering your vegetables, groceries, bringing you tea and any other odd jobs you want him to do. And it's only for a week. Hopefully he won't get into any trouble.'

'Darioush-sir is not here now. I'll give him the message.'

'OK, thank you, son. Let's go, Saahil.'

'Ali…, if it's all the same to you, can Saahil stay here and talk to me? I get bored with all the older men in there. It will be good to talk to someone my age.'

Sherlock looked up at Rasheed and instantly detected a subtle but unmistakable interest in his voice. And then Rasheed slowly licked his lower lip - a dead giveaway. _So…Rasheed finds me attractive. OK, I can use that__. __And he feels insignificant here. I can remedy that__._

'Uncle Ali, I have completed my chores for the morning. Could I have an hour to spend here? I will come back within an hour. I promise.'

'Alright. One hour. Or I'll have your hide! Good day, Rasheed', Ali said and walked off.

Sherlock inwardly did a backflip at his good fortune. He would turn on the allure and when Sherlock Holmes decided to be alluring, resistance was futile.

'So, tell me about yourself', Rasheed said with a lazy, inviting smile.

Sherlock flashed a nervous look at Rasheed. 'I study in a local school. We have holidays now so I'm helping Uncle Ali with some chores.'

'Good, good. You can keep me company here. I get bored all day with these old men.'

'What do they do?'

'Nothing, nothing of interest to you, anyway', Rasheed quickly deflected.

'What do _you_ do to keep from being bored?' Sherlock asked with a hint of a smile, his eyes slanting dangerously as he looked up at Rasheed through his thick lashes. He somehow managed to look like the hunter and the hunted and Rasheed mentally salivated over the ethereal creature in red with eyes of gray ice starkly outlined with kohl. He was convinced the stranger was edible. And he wanted a bite.

'I keep myself busy. Unlike you, working for your old uncle…So, what does Ali make you do for him?'

'Just this and that. I help him and my aunt around the house and now I'm helping with this work. They are elderly and need help', Sherlock said, fidgeting with the sleeve of his kameez.

'Your Uncle and Aunt…older people…too bad a young man like you has to spend time with them…you're so handsome…and maybe a bit lonely', Rasheed said, his voice trailing upwards at the end in an implied question, one side of his lips lifted in a sly smile.

'What do you mean "lonely"?'

'Oh, you know…no friends to talk to…no girls to look at…or boys', Rasheed's honeyed tones held a secret.

'I don't know what you're talking about!' Sherlock huffed in embarrassment.

'If you want, I could show you…things.' Rasheed cocked a suggestive eyebrow and stared at Sherlock.

'What things? I don't think I like where this is going', Sherlock took a step back, pretending to be uncomfortable.

'Oh, come on. I saw how you looked at me earlier. Don't worry…I'll take good care of you. Come on in. I'll take you to my room.'

'No! I have to go back. Uncle will be furious with me if I'm late!' he protested.

'Don't worry. We have an hour. That's more than enough time for what I have in mind. Come on, come on!' Rasheed insisted and opened the door, pulling Sherlock in by his sleeve.

Cavendish was watching the exchange through his binoculars.

'He's in!' he called out. 'Don't know how he did it but he's in!'

Behind him, Trevor's lips tightened in a grimace.

A half hour later, Sherlock emerged from the building and walked to the market from where he was picked up by Ryan and Murray and driven to Ali's home. Trevor was waiting for him. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him aside.

'Did you let him _fuck_ you?' Trevor asked in a low voice when they were out of earshot of the other men, his fingers digging painfully into Sherlock's bicep.

'No', Sherlock said glumly.

'Did _you_ fuck him?'

'No! He sucked me. That's all! Anyway, I don't owe you any explanations so back off!'

'Did you get any intel?'

'Not yet. I have to gain his trust. He needs to relax around me.'

'You have six days.'

'Sod off, Trevor', Sherlock growled.

His mind's eye filled with visions of a smiling face with blonde hair and ardent, trusting blue eyes that looked up at him in wonder. _John, John, John__. _The name was a refrain in his mind. _Get out of my head!_

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock went alone to the building and was met by Rasheed who was waiting eagerly for him at the door.

'_Can I have a cigarette?' Sherlock asked._

'_Sure. Here you go. I didn't know you smoked. You're a bad boy', Rasheed said with a glint in his eye. 'I wonder what other bad habits you have…'_

'_None…just this…'_

'_Oh, I think you have a bad side you don't know about yet. So…did you like what I did yesterday?'_

'_Y…yes. It was good.'_

'_Has anyone ever done that to you?' _

'_No…No. You are the first.'_

'_So you're a virgin?'_

'_Yes…is that bad?'_

'_Oh no! It's very good!' Rasheed was excited. 'I will teach you things. I was thinking of you last night as I pleasured myself. Did you also do it to yourself?'_

'_Yes…I…I did.' Sherlock stared at the ground, his eyelids fluttering as he pretended to be overcome with nervousness._

'_And did you think of me while doing it?'_

'_I did…'_

'_Come on, then. I'll show you more. I'm going to love teaching you and you're going to be a lovely student, my immaculate thing.'_

_Rasheed opened the door and Sherlock followed him inside._

_The previous day, Rasheed had made Sherlock sit on the narrow cot that stood against one wall of the small room as he sucked him. Today, the tiny TV against the other wall was tuned in to a news channel. A magazine with photographs of naked men was splayed open on the bed._

_He's desperate to feel important__, __Sherlock thought to himself. He suspected that insulting Rasheed would provoke him into revealing the information he needed._

'_So, what do you do all day? Just sit in here and masturbate to gay porn?' He picked up the magazine, flipped through it and tossed it back on the bed contemptuously._

'_Shut up. I do a lot more than that. I am trusted with __important__ duties.'_

'_I don't believe it. You're just a boy, a queer. Do they know? Why would they trust you with anything important? You're just a horny queer.'_

'_What's got into you? You were so docile yesterday. Today you're wild…like a tiger. I like it! It makes me want to bite you.'_

'_I'm sorry…I'm just bored of living with my Uncle. I want to go back to my studies. I want to make something of my life and get out of this small town!'_

'_So, you're the studious sort. What do you want to do with your life?'_

'_I want to become a doctor.'_

'_A doctor! Why a doctor, of all things?'_

'_I want to cure sick people with my medicine.'_

'_Oh, you're going to become one of those "good" doctors who help the world.'_

'_Doctors are always good.'_

'_Oh, I wouldn't say that.'_

'_What do you mean?'_

'_There are other kinds of doctors. For instance, doctors whose medicines can kill thousands of people with a single drop.'_

'_What? That's nonsense! Doctors are not evil.'_

'_Some are', Rasheed said, with a cryptic smile._

'_Bullshit. I don't believe you.'_

'_I can prove it.'_

'_Really? Alright, prove it then.' Sherlock stuck his chin out imperiously and looked down at Rasheed through narrowed eyes. Rasheed's cock swelled and he licked his lips._

'_I __know__ of one such doctor. He has a medicine that can wipe out entire populations.'_

_Sherlock's heart quickened to a gallop but his expression stayed unimpressed._

'_I'm not buying your bullshit', he gave a short laugh. 'You're letting your imagination run away with you. You've been reading too many spy novels. Oh wait, you don't read. You watch porn and wank off. Loser', he said with a derisive smirk._

'_Shut up! I mean it! He's being held in this city.'_

'_Oh yeah? I think you're lying to impress me. Where's he being held? Have you seen him?' Sherlock challenged._

'_He's a white man, about sixty. I've seen him when I deliver messages to Darioush-sir from here. He's with that medicine man.'_

'_Whatever…I'm getting bored of this talk. You're all talk, talk, talk!' Sherlock decided to change the subject before Rasheed began to suspect that he was getting a little too interested in this doctor. He had enough information to go on._

'_OK, handsome. What do you want to do then?'_

_Sherlock licked his lower lip._

'_Uhmmm…uh…will you do that to me again?' he asked, shyly toeing the carpet._

_Rasheed smiled. 'I was wondering when you'd ask. Pants off, my sweet…'_

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock left the building, lax from an explosive orgasm brought on by the prurient lips, mouth and tongue of a very enthusiastic Rasheed, and headed for the market. Trevor and Bowen picked him up this time.

'We need to send a coded message to Broadchurch's email address. Rasheed will deliver it. Follow him. He's going to lead us to Father.'

* * *

Sherlock telephoned Billy and Toby and instructed them to send a message in Dikhsaari to the email address on Broadchurch's communications. It said 'Spider wants update. Contact at once.' They faked the sender's email address to appear as damhan_ . .uk , from where all communications to Broadchurch had originated. He also instructed them to put a trace on that email and watch for any responses, anything that contained the phrases he had used.

Billy and Toby set up the message to near-instantaneously be bounced around hundreds of email servers across the world before it reached Broadchurch's inbox. They also associated a virus with the email that would propagate from the source message to any responses to it, allowing them to track the entire email chain.

The next day, predictably, Rasheed left the hub and headed for the secret location where Siger was supposedly being held. Sherlock and Murray disguised themselves in _burqas_ that covered them from head to toe. Their faces were also concealed behind veils, fully opaque but for a net-like section in the region of their eyes so as to not obscure their vision. They kept a safe distance behind Rasheed, ducking into by-lanes when he appeared to look around and finally stopped when he arrived at his destination. A white, two-storey building with a dark brown door. Rasheed knocked on the door and when it opened, he was greeted by an older man whom Sherlock recognized from the photographs as Broadchurch. He held up his mobile phone and quickly snapped a picture. Broadchurch stepped aside to let Rasheed in and shut the door behind him.

* * *

That evening Sherlock again visited Rasheed and was taken to his room.

'Hey, how about you suck me today?' Rasheed asked.

'I'd rather not', Sherlock said, appearing uncomfortable.

'Well, I should get _something _for sucking you twice. Let me fuck you, then.'

'No, please. I don't like this!'

'OK, ok, you're such a prude! Alright, I won't fuck you but I could make us both come. Together. You want to try that?'

'I…uh…'

'You'll love it, I promise. Let me do it once. Just once! Oh, I can imagine your beautiful face as your body breaks under me. Please?' Rasheed begged.

'Uh…OK, just once.'

'Yes, yes, just once. Take your pants off and lie down on the bed. Go on. I won't hurt you. I promise.'

Sherlock undid his _shalwaar_ and drew his boxers down to his knees, pulling up his _kameez_ to his belly to expose his flaccid cock that rested limply on his balls.

'Oh no, this won't do' Rasheed said with a smile and bent down to suck Sherlock into an erection. His body responded, unable to disengage from the physical stimulus, and swelled, long and thick, to Rasheed's delight.

'Now that's better!' Rasheed grinned and leaned over Sherlock's body, bunching up his _kameez _at his waist and pushing his own _shalwaar_ down to pull his already engorged cock out of his pants.

He pressed down so that his cock fell heavy against Sherlock's, spat into his large palm and wrapped his hand around their shafts to begin a slow, rhythmic stroke, up and down, twisting his fist over their spongy tops and smearing their tips with each other's pre-cum. He leaned down and tried to kiss Sherlock but his lips fell on a pale cheek as Sherlock turned his head just in time. He pushed Sherlock's _kameez_ up to expose his bare chest and nervously licked a nipple. When Sherlock gasped involuntarily, he felt Rasheed smile against his skin and the lick became a suck and then a nip as he became bolder with his caresses. An open mouth moved wetly across his chest to claim his other nipple and he closed his eyes, imagining it was John's warm, wet breath on his skin, and his traitorous body shuddered and slackened, pleasure trickling through to every nerve ending like a warm rush of liquid and his cock twitched in Rasheed's hands.

'Ah…my beautiful lover…you're so responsive. I knew it the first time I saw you…Let me kiss you…with my tongue…'

'No! Not on the mouth!' Sherlock brusquely cut him off.

Annoyed and aroused even more by Sherlock's intransigence, Rasheed tightened his grip on their cocks and his strokes grew harder and faster, relentlessly pumping their shafts in concert until Sherlock came with a cry, spurting over Rasheed's fingers and his own stomach, followed closely by Rasheed's own release dripping onto his stomach and mingling with his cum.

Rasheed fell over him, exhausted and pleasured out, breathing heavily, his heart thumping against Sherlock's chest until he was pushed aside and Sherlock got up to wipe himself clean of the evidence of their act.

'I have to leave', he mumbled and staggered out of Rasheed's room. He walked quickly to the market and was picked up by Ryan and they drove to Ali's home.

* * *

'We have to get Father. He is in that building. I don't want to have to deal with Rasheed anymore.'

'It's a risk. You don't _know_ he's being held there', Trevor pointed out.

'It's a _calculated_ risk, Trevor. Surely the SAS _trains_ you to take calculated risks, doesn't it?' Sherlock retorted, his tone caustic and impatient.

Trevor watched him, his head tilted as though he were studying him, assessing something.

'We'll set up in the opposite building. Tomorrow night, Murray and I go in. Cav, Ryan and Bowen will cover us. You'll stay here.'

'Not happening. I'm going with you', Sherlock insisted, brooking no dissent.

'_Not_ happening. You're not trained to function in such situations. You're staying here.'

'_Not_ happening, Trevor. This is my father. I'm going with you. Don't waste time arguing with me.'

'Fuck you, Sherlock', Trevor hissed. 'You're not making it easy.'

'I don't _care_. I'm going.'

Brown eyes wordlessly battled defiant gray for a long while. 'Fuck it. He's coming with us', Trevor finally conceded and the men began preparing for the operation.

Sherlock didn't speak again for the rest of the day. He struggled to reason with his tormented heart.

_I feel dirty and guilty, as though I have been unfaithful to John. But we were not together. And yet, I took a bath and tried to scrub the feeling of Rasheed off my body. My skin is sore but I still feel unclean. What have you done to me, John? _

That night, he fell into a thrashing, disturbed sleep, his mind flooded with memories of that face framed by soft blond hair, that voice, those lips lovingly pressed against his, those tanned arms and legs wrapped around him in a warm embrace, the words that were almost spoken. _John. John. John._

* * *

The next afternoon the five SAS men and Sherlock walked three kilometres to a building opposite the limestone structure where they suspected Siger was being held. They staggered their approach, arriving at the building in pairs several hours apart, and entered using the rear entrance. Their weapons were concealed in tattered shoulder bags that they slung across their torsos. Sherlock was paired with Cavendish and carried plastic bags heavy with groceries and vegetables and gave the impression of being his errand boy.

The previous day they had parked their three getaway Land Rovers, at different times during the day, on side streets a block from the building.

Darkness blanketed the city as the men readied themselves in a small room on the first floor of the building. Trevor and Murray strapped on thigh holsters into which they thrust their Brownings. They expertly assembled their assault rifles in the dark and fixed their night vision scopes to the top. Each man smoothly swung his rifle up to his shoulder in the ready position, peering through the scope, dropped it to his side and swung it back up, once, twice, thrice. Ryan and Bowen prepared themselves similarly, tucking their knives into their boots, adjusting their scopes and checking their rifles.

Trevor shrugged his shoulders in a circle, forwards and backwards, to loosen them and then stretched his neck, rolling his head clockwise and anticlockwise.

'Right. Let's move', he ordered. It was 1 a.m. local time.

Sherlock and Cavendish watched from a window through their night vision binoculars as the four men alternately crouched and sprinted in the shadows as they advanced on their target. Cavendish was at the ready to provide aerial cover from his elevated vantage point across the street, directly in line with the front door. Bowen and Ryan took their positions behind neighbouring buildings on either side of their target, keeping a sweeping, lateral watch on the front and rear entrances and windows in the left and right walls.

The night was deathly still but for a quiet breeze that rustled whimsically through dry leaves and scraps of paper strewn on the deserted streets, whipping them up in a whorl and then scattering them in random patterns. The howl of a stray dog echoed in the distance.

The five men watched Trevor sidle up to an open window. Placing his hands on the sill, he lithely hoisted himself, pulling his knees up to his chest, and fluidly swung his legs over the sill with almost feline grace, landing inside the flat noiselessly. Were Sherlock not consumed by the dramatic tension of the moment, he would have noticed his cock swelling in response.

Seconds later, Trevor silently unlocked the front door to let Murray in. A gravid silence hung heavy for long moments when the men on the outside knew Trevor and Murray would be skulking through the dark rooms, looking for Siger Holmes among the sleeping bodies. Suddenly, gunshots rang out, shattering the eerie quiet of the night, and were followed by screams from the upper storey. The staccato firing continued for a few minutes and then, obscured from Sherlock and Cavendish, the rear door was kicked open with a bang and Trevor ran out, carrying a weak Dr. Siger Holmes over his shoulder. Murray backed out facing inwards, covering Trevor, shooting into the darkness, each bullet unerringly finding its mark as the inhabitants of the building fell one by one. Sherlock and Cavendish listened to the rescue unfold from their dark room and Sherlock's throat ran dry when he saw two figures run across the street behind the building, a limp figure slung over one man's shoulder.

'They've got him!' he gasped, his heart hammering in his chest.

Murray and Trevor dashed towards the closest Land Rover under fire from two mercenaries who rushed out of the building in pursuit. Their chase was short-lived as Bowen and Ryan cleanly dispatched the pursuers with direct hits to their chests, blood spurting in small fountains from their wounds as their bodies fell flat and lifeless on the ground. Bowen and Ryan waited exactly 3 minutes. When it appeared that the tumult inside the building had died down, they sprinted to their Land Rover and the two vehicles screeched into motion, the sound of their engines piercing the stillness of the night and dying as they sped off into the distance.

Cavendish and Sherlock remained in their room for another five minutes, watching for any movement in the opposite building. When there was none, they tiptoed down the stairs and left through a side door but Sherlock's head snapped around at the faint sound of a moan. The front door of their target building had slowly fallen open and they saw a prone figure crawl out through the doorway. It was Rasheed and he had been shot.

'Fuck!' Sherlock cursed and, without a second thought, started across the street to help him up.

A hand shot out to grab his arm and hold him back.

'What the _fuck_ are you _doing_? We _have_ to get out of here!' Cavendish hissed.

'Let me go! I have to save him. He led us to Father and he has nothing to do with Broadchurch!'

'Fuck you and your bleeding heart! Hurry!'

Sherlock bolted across the street and helped Rasheed to his feet. Pulling the injured man's arm around his shoulder and wrapping his arm tightly around his waist, he dragged the shambling boy across the street in the direction of their Land Rover. Cavendish held position on the other side of the street, his rifle trained on the front door. Sherlock had almost made it across when an arm holding a Sig punched the door open again and, for a split second, they looked into the bloody face of Broadchurch. He was crouching at the door – blood gushed from his wounds but he retained enough strength to hold up his Sig and shoot two very closely spaced rounds at Cavendish and Sherlock. Cavendish had reacted near instantaneously when he saw Broadchurch and fired a fatal shot that got him between his eyes and sent his body flying back into the flat but at almost the same second, he heard Sherlock's scream rend the air and felt his own throat split. His rifle fell from his hands as a fountain of dark fluid spurted from his neck and he clasped his hand to his wound, trying to stem the torrent of blood. Fighting to remain conscious, he squinted and saw that Sherlock was hobbling. He had taken a bullet to his right thigh and seemed to be in excruciating pain.

Sherlock gently lowered Rasheed's body against the building and staggered over to Cavendish.

'Hey, hey…you're going to be fine', he groaned through his own pain.

'You're lying…', Cavendish's words were little more than harsh glugs, his lips parting with a loud moan to cough up foaming blood and saliva that ran down his face. He tried to swallow in thick, wet mouthfuls, managing only to heave and burble. His eyes were rolling back in his head.

'Don't speak. Shhh…You'll be alright', Sherlock tried to soothe the wounded man.

He tore off a strip from his turban and wrapped it tightly around Cavendish's neck but by the time he was done, Cavendish had let out a rattling gurgle and his body had stiffened and fallen boneless in Sherlock's arms. He froze for a moment realizing that Cavendish was gone, and then leapt into action. He laid the dead SAS man's body on the ground and hobbled back to Rasheed whose breathing was growing shallower and more laboured. Hoisting him up to lean on him, Sherlock slowly limped to the Land Rover and helped Rasheed in, holding on to his arm as he collapsed on the seat. He buckled the seatbelt around Rasheed and then hopped back to Cavendish, clasping his hands around his wrists to drag him to the vehicle.

Grunting loudly, he pulled Cavendish's lifeless body up and pushed it onto the floor of the passenger seat. He slammed the passenger door shut and got into the driver's seat, holding his right leg with both hands and lifting it in. He retrieved the key and started the vehicle, grunting and gritting his teeth against the pain in his right thigh that was spreading throughout his leg. Using his left foot, he stepped on the accelerator and maneuvered the vehicle into motion, driving off in the direction of Ali's house.

The vehicle swerved dangerously on the narrow street and when the tyres joggled and bounced over potholes and large pebbles, the pain in Sherlock's leg seared through the rest of his body and a horrific scream tore out from his lips as his body went into shock and he fell unconscious. His head lolled back onto to the headrest of the seat and his hands dropped from the steering wheel which, without a guiding force, spun madly and sent the Land Rover careening off the street until it rammed into a wall. Sherlock's body jolted hard and flopped forward in his seat, mercifully held in place by his seatbelt as his head hung on his chest and his arm dangled outside the vehicle. Blood from his thigh dripped steadily onto the seat and vehicle floor. In the back seat, Rasheed's eyes fluttered and his body convulsed as his last breath fled his lips and he slackened onto the seat, a lifeless heap of flesh and bone.

* * *

When he came to, Sherlock was lying on his back on a mattress atop a coir cot. His skin felt wet with sweat. A thin blanket covered his body and he reached a hand down to his thigh, wincing in pain when his fingers grazed his wound. His eyes flicked around the room as he surveyed his surroundings and then stopped on the concerned face of a young Dikhsaari boy.

'Father, Father, he is awake!' the boy cried out in Dikhsaari.

The curtain in the doorway shifted as an older man came running into the room bringing Sherlock cool water in a steel tumbler.

'Son, you're awake! I am Abdul. This is my son, Salim. He found you in your jeep. Here, drink some water!' the man's gentle voice was thick with worry.

Abdul held his head up and Sherlock closed his eyes, gulping noisily as his body welcomed the coolth coating his throat, his gullet and down to his stomach. Abdul poured him another glass which he drank greedily and then his head fell back on the pillow. Abdul carefully wiped his face and neck with a cool wet cloth and petted his hair.

'Pain. Pain', Sherlock whimpered. 'The other boy?' he asked.

'Dead, son. They were both dead when Salim found you. I am very sorry.'

'They were my friends…', Sherlock whispered weakly as his eyes rolled back in his head, his breaths coming in choppy wheezes.

'Watson…John Watson…', Sherlock muttered, his eyes rolling and fluttering as he tried to remain alert.

'Son, I don't understand!' the man said in consternation.

'Get John Watson!' Sherlock cried out as he tried to move his leg and fell back on the mattress with a loud cry as the pain from his leg shot through his body. His skin glistened with sweat as he panted through the agony, waiting for the waves of pain to dissipate. When he had calmed down a little, he raised a hand and gestured for a pen.

Salim opened the wooden cupboard in the room and quickly retrieved a piece of paper and a pencil.

Sherlock placed the paper on his own chest and tried to write but his hand fell weakly to the side. Salim sat on the bed and took the paper and pencil from him.

'Tell me, brother. I will write.'

'English?' Sherlock asked.

The boy nodded.

'John Watson. J-o-h-n W-a-t-s-o-n. Doctor. Limaaz General Hospital. Say Unicorn sent you. U-n-i-c-o-r-n.' His voice trailed off and he was comatose again.

When he stirred a few hours later, it was almost noon. His blurry eyes discerned the nebulous image of a troubled smile on a vaguely familiar face. He blinked to clear his vision and then he was drowning in large blue eyes below dark blond eyebrows on a forehead that was creased in worry. A soft hand stroked his hair with infinite tenderness. He felt he had come home.

'Jaawwwn… Jaawwwn…you came…', his voice was gravelly from disuse. He noticed they were alone in the room.

John leaned down and spoke in a very soft voice, his lips close to Sherlock's ear. 'I'll always come for you, baby. Always', John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand. 'You're awake, you're awake. You'll be alright. I'll take care of you', he said quietly, his voice almost a sob. 'Ohgod, ohgod! What's going on...What are you doing _here_? You're hurt. You're hurt badly. You've lost a _lot_ of blood! I have to get you to the hospital!'

'No! I can't move…My leg is killing me! You have to take a look. Now. Here.'

'I only have emergency supplies! I might make it worse!'

'Please John!' Sherlock gasped.

'No! I can't! I'll hurt you more, baby!' John turned away, unable to bear the sight of his lover in this much pain.

'You must, John. I can't move. You're my only hope. Help me.'

John rose to his feet and walked to the window, looking out at the quiet street.

'I trust you, John.'

When he turned around again, John's eyes were calm and his mind was made up.

'Alright. I'll need to feel around in the wound. This is going to hurt.'

'I can bear it.'

'You'll need to bite down on something.'

Sherlock said something in Dikhsaari and Salim came back with a clean muslin cloth which Sherlock rolled into a wad and pushed into his mouth. He nodded at John to continue. John gestured to the boy and his father to hold Sherlock's arms and legs down and went to their bathroom to wash his hands thoroughly. He spread a clean cloth on the bed and laid out his emergency medical paraphernalia – trauma shears, curved tip surgical tweezers, alcohol swabs, Kerlix gauze dressing, cotton bandages, antibiotic cream and morphine injection. He pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves as Abdul and Salim positioned themselves at the head and foot of the bed, holding Sherlock down by his wrists and ankles. Using the trauma shears, he cut away the blood-soaked fabric of Sherlock's _shalwaar_ and peeled it away to reveal the bullet wound. The blood had clotted in blackish-red clumps around the entry point and the flesh was swollen and inflamed. It did not look infected.

John gently sprayed a topical anaesthetic over the area and a few moments later, injected a local anaesthetic a couple of inches from the wound, shushing Sherlock soothingly as he winced through the pain. He waited a couple of minutes and then pressed gently on Sherlock's thigh.

'Feel anything?' he asked.

'Nuh…nuh…', Sherlock shook his head, his words muffled by his gag.

John cleaned the skin very carefully with alcohol swabs, an involuntary shudder passing through his body when the swabs turned dark red.

'I'm going to feel around – I need to see if the bullet is still lodged in there.'

Sherlock nodded.

John slowly pressed his gloved little finger into the wound.

'Uuuuhhhnnnn! Uhhhhhhnnnn!' Sherlock's muffled moans broke the silence. His body arched off the bed in agony, his teeth clamped down on his gag as a few tears ran down his cheeks, the stretch hitting his thighs and intensifying his torture.

John jerked his hand back. 'Sorry. I'm so sorry!' he soothed and administered more anesthetic.

He held his fists up together over Sherlock's stomach and drew them apart in a semi-circle. Abdul nodded and opened the cupboard to pull out a long shawl which he folded once, along its length, and placed broadly across Sherlock's waist and hips and tied tightly on one side. Once Sherlock's body was fully tethered to the cot at his midriff and couldn't move anymore, father and son returned to holding his limbs down.

John pressed into the wound again and this time Sherlock let out a long, stifled groan of anguish as tears rolled down his cheeks and mucous poured from his nose. Salim and his father struggled to pin his thrashing arms and legs down until finally Sherlock fell back on the bed, unconscious.

John felt his whole body relax in relief and he carefully prodded the wound, pressing deeper into the flesh until his nail scratched the bullet. He retracted his finger and carefully insinuated the tweezers into the wound, pinched the bullet and very slowly pulled it out.

Salim and his father uttered joyous cries as John fell back on the floor, leaning against the wall, his body caving with a watery laugh as he held up the offending bullet. He rested his head against the wall and allowed his eyes to well with tears of relief, forcibly lengthening his breaths to quiet his racing heart. A few long minutes later, the doctor in him took over and he snapped into action. He cleaned the area, changed his gloves, spread antibiotic cream over it and placed a Kerlix gauze dressing on the wound, pressing lightly till the gauze stuck to Sherlock's skin adhered by the cream. He used a moist face-cloth to wipe down Sherlock's face and neck which were wet with perspiration.

'No moving. Stay still. Flat!' he said in English, signing with his hands. Abdul and Salim nodded vigorously in understanding.

There was only the one bed in the house so Salim's father spread a blanket on the floor and brought a pillow, gesturing for John to lie down and sleep. John gratefully accepted the offer and after washing his hands and drinking some water, he was asleep within minutes, his soft breathing the only sound in the quiet room.

When John awoke, it was evening and Sherlock was still asleep. He removed the dressing to inspect Sherlock's wound. The surrounding area was swollen and mottled purple and red but it did not look infected. John cleaned the area once more, applied antibiotic cream on it and placed a new dressing over it. His lover looked frail and young; his cheeks were hollowed with dark circles under his eyes and his beautiful lips were dry and chapped as they parted with his pained huffs. John ran his hand very tenderly on his lover's hair and bent down to place a soft kiss on his forehead.

Abdul brought John some food and tea which he consumed eagerly. Fatigue claimed him again and he fell asleep sitting on the floor beside the bed, his head laid on the mattress with his hand splayed on Sherlock's concave belly, rising and falling with his breath in the only act of intimacy he could allow himself in the circumstances. The warmth of Sherlock's body seeping into his palm through the thin fabric of his _kameez_ provided a living connection to the man he thought he might never see again.

Sherlock slipped in and out of consciousness and in the few moments of lucidity he managed to snatch from the jaws of insentience, John fed him the rice and lamb curry that Abdul had prepared, injected antibiotics to supplement the antibiotic cream smeared on the wound and made sure he drank water to stay hydrated. He also helped him out of his stained clothes, quickly wiped his body down with wet-wipes and eased him into one of Abdul's clean robes.

Sherlock tried to thank him but John silenced him by pressing his fingers to his own lips and then pressing them to Sherlock's. A chaste but poor substitute for all the kisses he could not give him. When the pain became unbearable, he administered morphine via injection and soothed Sherlock through his suffering. John didn't leave his side for longer than ten minutes.

When Abdul and Salim were not in the room, John allowed himself to sit beside Sherlock and stroke his hair and hold his hand. He spoke to him in a very quiet voice, hoping his words would soothe Sherlock through his suffering.

_Hey, baby. This is the last place I would have expected to see you again. But you're unpredictable. Like the weather. Stormy one moment, clement the next. So I shouldn't really be surprised. When you left that day, I didn't know what to think. I still don't. I drove myself mad thinking something had happened to you, or that you didn't want me. And then I saw that posh bastard. I know he took you away. Bastard. He knew my name. I don't know how. And he asked me to stay away from you. Ha! Like that's going to happen. Pompous git. But I'm glad you read my email. That's how you sent Salim to get me, didn't you? I wish you would tell me your name. And who you are. I want to know you. Anything you're willing to share with me. I hope one day you'll tell me what this is all about. And I hope one day you'll tell me what you feel for me. I've told you everything. And you still called me. So does that mean you feel something for me? Do you like me? Will you tell me when you wake up? Please wake up. Please. I can't bear to see you lying helpless like this. You're not meant to be like this – fragile, injured. You're meant to soar, my love. Wake up, baby. I'll be here when you do. Wake up. I love you. I love you. I love you._

Two very disturbed and anguished days later, Sherlock regained consciousness and felt and looked much better. He was hungry and eager to get cleaned up. John helped him brush his teeth and shaved his stubble. He drew the curtain in the doorway and stripped Sherlock's robe off to give him a bed bath, gently wiping down his body with medical soap and warm water. When he was finished, Sherlock looked and smelled clean. The colour was returning to his cheeks and his eyes were back to tempestuous gray swimming against clear white. Salim handed John a _kameez_ and he helped Sherlock into it, leaving him bare underneath so that he could attend to his wound and his biological needs. His injury was healing nicely – the swelling had reduced and the laceration was beginning close as the skin fused.

'What about Cav and Rasheed?' Sherlock asked.

'Both bodies…men have been taken to Kumaan.'

'I owe them both…so much', he said in a sad voice. John watched him silently.

'I really didn't want our next meeting to be under such circumstances, with me being bed-ridden and you playing nurse', Sherlock murmured, looking down at his hands that lay open in his lap, over the thin sheet covering his legs.

'I'll take meeting you under any circumstances', John said in a gentle but firm tone.

They threaded their fingers together and just looked at each other. Sherlock felt content. Safe.

'Thank you, John. You saved me.'

'It wasn't a choice. You wouldn't let me say it to you in London. I love you. I can only think it's Fate that has brought us together again like this. I love you. There is something between us and maybe it means nothing to you. But it means everything to me. I love you. You can't imagine what I felt seeing you lying there, bleeding and unconscious. You just can't…I don't ever want to feel like that again!' John tried and failed to control the tremor in his voice.

Sherlock stayed quiet, watching him. He squeezed his hand. John's eyes were lowered; he was looking at their fingers, perfectly entwined in a beautiful weave, like they belonged together and he raised their hands to press his lips to each of Sherlock's knuckles and then the back of his palm, the inside of his wrist and then a final kiss to his palm.

'Samuel Holloway.'

'No', John shook his head, speaking into Sherlock's palm. 'Try again.'

'Sherlock Holmes.'

John looked up and his eyes widened in realization. He smiled. 'I knew you had an unusual name...It suits you...Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock. Sherlock.'

They looked at each other for a long time, their gaze fond and familiar, and then John spoke again.

'I love you, Sherlock.'

'I know.'

John winced with a bitter stab of disappointment and he bit his lip, trying to blink back the tears that threatened to spill over. He had told himself that he didn't expect Sherlock to say the words back to him, but he felt destroyed nonetheless.

'I'm glad. I want you to know. I will always love you. Always. Always.'

They were silent for a few moments.

'Sherlock. Sherlock', he said, savouring the sweetness of the unfamiliar name like honey on his tongue.

Sherlock looked away and John fell silent.

'May I borrow your mobile phone?' he asked John.

'Of course.'

He took John's mobile phone and logged into his email with his free hand. Mycroft had written to say their father was safe in Mumbai, India and was recovering at the Taj Mahal hotel where the best physicians in the country were attending to his health. He would be staying there until this matter was resolved. Violet Holmes had been informed and had also flown to Mumbai to be with her husband.

Sherlock's eyes closed as he felt relief wash over him. John squeezed his hand. He emailed Mycroft to let him know where he was and that he was safe. Then he logged out of his email, wiped the access history clean and handed the phone back to John.

'Are you ok, Sherlock?'

'I am now.'

He related the events of the past two weeks and John listened, his mouth agape with amazement. When Sherlock finally stopped, John gazed at him, his eyes and his smile expressing his wonder, his devotion and admiration more eloquently than any words could.

'I was right, you know', he said smugly.

'Oh, really? About what?'

'About you. You are special, Sherlock. So brave, so loyal. And I love you. So much. So very much. I love you. I love you.' Adoration flowed uncontrollably from his lips and he was powerless to stop it. He held Sherlock's gaze, his eyes laying himself open to Sherlock's decision, his judgment.

Sherlock turned his head and pulled his hand away, unable to face the naked truth of John's feelings, unable to reciprocate his confessions of love. He panicked, shutting down inside, hating himself for his catatonia in the face of John's declarations while his brain shouted out words that his lips couldn't vocalize.

_I have so much to say to you, John! But I can't! Please! Why don't you understand? I can't say the words but can't you see what I feel? Look into my eyes! I am scared. Scared that you'll hurt me, that you'll leave me. And if you do, it will destroy me! I can only protect myself by staying away from you. You'll leave me. Won't you? Everyone does. So I'll leave you first._

John saw Sherlock's silence as a conclusive rejection and it crushed him; he would have preferred death at that moment. Tears fought their way past his attempts to hold them back and spilled down his cheeks in copious streams of liquid desolation.

'I…uh…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'll…I'll stop saying it. You obviously don't feel…uh…Sherlock...I...I don't expect _anything_ from you. I _really_ don't. But I am a helpless fool who's so in love with you. Please…let me say it one last time. I love you, Sherlock Holmes.

'I would kill whoever hurt you in the past. You are magnificent. You're a beautiful man, a beautiful person and you deserve to be happy and loved. I wish that you find someone worthy of you who can walk through life by your side, your equal and your opposite. Someone who makes you _want_ to love again. You were made to be loved.'

Sherlock reached out to touch John's hand but John rose to his feet.

'You need to rest', he said and left the room.

Sherlock fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, seeing patterns in the chipped paint and rearranging them to form John's likeness. His mind threw words at John that he couldn't speak. _John. John. John. Come back! Please. Come back. Come back. I need you. Come back. Fight me. Claim me. Come back. Please come back, John._ He deliberately closed his eyes and kept them closed until, a few minutes later, his body pulled him back into the darkness of sleep.

When he awoke, he found a note on the bed. It was from John.

_Sherlock,_

_I have to go back to the hospital. You should be able to walk again in a few days and I expect you will make a full recovery within two months. I have contacted your brother. He will send someone to fetch you tomorrow._

_Goodbye._

_-John_

* * *

**Notes: **This last scene is inspired by a similar chapter in Exodus by Leon Uris which has stayed with me since I first read the book years ago. It's one of the most romantic scenes I've read without having the slightest bit of sex in it. Wonderful.


	5. You don't love me

Chapter Summary: Mystery solved but there's heartache...so much heartache...

**You don't love me**

You don't love me – Marilyn

_Maybe you and I could face the things that you have inside your head sometimes_

_Are there any reasons that you can deliver to my door to prove_

_That you don't love me, That you don't love me baby_

_Oh-ho, oh-ho _

_Trace the tears I have cried in vain for your lies to penetrate my soul_

_Oh I count the times I've told you everything I have to give to you it's true (it's true)_

_I am freedom, guess I am_

_But you don't love me, you don't love me baby_

_Oh-oh, oh-oh_

* * *

The next day, Sherlock was driven to Kumaan General Hospital accompanied by Abdul and Salim. Father and son were overjoyed that their young guest was making a fine recovery and they sat by his bed as his doctors looked him over.

'Your wound is healing well, Mr. Holmes. It has been treated by someone with medical expertise. If I may ask, who was it that attended to your injury?' Dr. Jameson asked.

'Dr. John Watson of the RAMC. He is stationed at Limaaz General Hospital.'

'Well, Dr. Watson did a fine job. There was a good chance of infection had your wound been left untreated.'

They heard a knock on the door.

'Come in!' Dr. Jameson called out.

The door opened and five SAS men trooped in. Foster, Trevor, Murray, Bowen and Ryan.

'Oh, I didn't know my patient was a local celebrity!' Dr. Jameson joked. 'General', he nodded at Foster, 'Good to see you again. I'll let you and your men catch up with young Mr. Holmes. He'll be fine. A month of R&R and he'll be back to normal. He's very fortunate that Dr. Watson was on hand to tend to his injury. Good day, gentlemen!'

'Dr. Watson?' Foster asked when Dr. Jameson had left. Sherlock caught a loaded glance between Trevor and Murray.

'Yes. Dr. John Watson, RAMC, Limaaz General Hospital.'

'Well, looks like we owe Dr. Watson. How are you feeling, my boy?'

Better than I have a right to be. I'm so sorry about Cav, Rob. I'm so sorry. I couldn't save him. He died because of me. I couldn't save Cav. I couldn't save Rasheed, either.'

'Hey, hey, son…Cav was one of the bravest men I knew. He went into this eyes open. In fact, anyone on active duty knows any moment might be their last. It's part of the job description. At least his last mission ended in success. Siger is safe in Mumbai, Sherlock', Foster said, his hand squeezing Sherlock's in reassurance. 'Your mother is with him. He's recovering well. I've arranged for you to fly out to Mumbai as soon as you're able to move with some ease. You did well, son. Your parents would be so proud.'

'What I really want to say may sound…trite', Sherlock's voice was hoarse with emotion. 'So I'll just say that I am very, very…grateful to you all. Thank you. I am so…deeply sorry about Cav.'

'Cav was a good man. We loved him. I _think_ he tolerated us', Trevor said with a sad smile. 'Now…you take care of yourself, you handsome devil. And we'll see you when we're in London, alright?

'Yes, of course. I look forward to that. You are all welcome to stay with us in London. Do call on us when you are in town. I know Father and Mycroft would want to thank you in person.'

'We've got to go now. Duty calls. Foster's dropping our arses in the middle of another hot spot. Fucking Foster', Trevor tried to lighten the solemn mood, looking at his commanding officer with a cheeky grin.

Foster looked at Sherlock helplessly and shrugged in a 'see the shit I have to deal with but what am I going to do' way.

'Get the fuck out of here, Trevor', he growled with a fond smile.

The five men each shook Sherlock's hand and wished him well before filing out of the room. Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone and sent an email to John.

_Thank you, John. You came for me._ _You saved me._

_Do write._ _-SH_

* * *

A week later, Sherlock arrived in Mumbai. Mycroft had joined them there and the Holmes family rested in the comfort of the Rajput Suite on the sixteenth floor of the Taj Mahal hotel. The suite offered four sprawling bedrooms and Sherlock and Mycroft had begun to use the facilities of the fully equipped office. In the evenings, they opened the curtains in his father's bedroom and took in the stunning view of the Mumbai skyline.

Sherlock's wound was healing nicely. Mycroft had brought his laptop to Mumbai and he emailed John.

_In Mumbai now. Father is safe. Mycroft and Mother are here as well. I'm walking with a slight limp but it's healing well. Thank you for saving me._

_Do write._ _-SH_

Sherlock wrote in his journal.

_#19. J saved me in Dikhsaar. Came to me when I called. Seemed terrified of hurting me. Why does he care for me? Stayed by my side, never resting and always alert for anything I might need. He was so tired by the end. I saw him nodding off with exhaustion. And yet, he would snap up if I so much as cleared my throat. What did I do to deserve that kind of affection? I am not worthy of it. And yet, he said he loves me. Over and over. Why does he love me? He is…he is everything I am not. He is warm and I am cold. Kind and I am cruel. Sunshine and I am darkness. He follows me but I should be following him. He said he loves me. In return, I turned away from him. What is this terrible bitterness in me that stops me from telling him my heart breaks for him? Why can't he see it in my eyes? Why must there be words? I hate words! They are tossed around senselessly. I chased him away. I've lost him because I am defective._

He walked slowly into his father's bedroom and found Mycroft and his mother sitting beside his father who was reclining on his bed. Siger Holmes was recovering well. Apart from mild malnutrition and exhaustion, he was unharmed.

'Come, Sherlock. Sit with me.'

'How are you feeling, Father?'

'I'll live!' Siger said with a good-humoured laugh. 'How are you, son? You have been through a lot these past few weeks. You are very brave and I am so proud of you. How is your leg?'

'It was nothing, Father. I'll be fine.'

'Mycroft told me a good friend of yours helped tend to your wound in Rishayat when you couldn't get to a hospital. It was fortunate that he was in the area.'

'He's not a friend. He's my neighbour from Baker Street', Sherlock sounded glum.

'Well, he's wonderful neighbour, then.'

'Yes, he is wonderful', Sherlock agreed quietly.

'He saved my son. I hope you thanked him properly. '

'I didn't…'

'Oh? It's not like you to be impolite. Anyway, we'll rectify that. The next time he's in London, I want to have him over for dinner. Will you see to that?'

'I shall, Father. You must rest now.'

'Oh, I'm fine! I missed you boys and your mother. It was all I could think of when I was being held. That I might never see my family again', Siger's voice cracked.

Sherlock squeezed his hand.

'We were worried, Father. If it weren't for Rob and his men…I don't know…I don't know what we could have done. I lost two friends. I couldn't save them…'

'Mycroft told me about that. Sherlock…you were very brave. You brought them back although you were wounded and could hardly walk. That takes a lot of courage. Don't forget that.'

Sherlock sighed, unconvinced.

'We _will_ get to the bottom of this, Father. You must rest now.'

Sherlock retired to his bedroom and checked his email. There was no reply from John.

He sat at his desk and wrote in his journal.

_#20 J won't write to me. Does he read my emails? Or does he just delete them unread? I need to see him again. I have to get him back. I will get him back. He thinks I feel nothing for him. He couldn't be more wrong. How do I show him how wrong he is?_

Sherlock saw he had received a number of emails from his motley crew in London.

'Mycroft', he called.

Mycroft walked up to Sherlock's bedroom. 'Yes, Sherlock?'

'There's an update. Simon and Molly have traced the fund transfers to an account held in the name of Darius Broadchurch which, in turn, has been receiving large sums of money from an account at Waterloo Bank in London. That account is held in the name of a ghost, or at least a man who no longer exists.'

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. He sat next to Sherlock at his desk.

'James Moriarty.'

Mycroft's fingers balled into a fist.

'You know him?'

When he didn't answer, Sherlock continued.

'The twins looked up Moriarty. The latest records on him are from seven years ago. No reported death on file. It was as though, seven years ago, James Moriarty simply vanished. They also found that Moriarty had served in the Army Reserve and his last mission was eight years back, when he was part of a rescue mission in Kosovo… Wasn't that your mission, brother?'

Toby had sent Sherlock a number of photographs from the Army archives and Google images. Sherlock turned his laptop around to face Mycroft.

'Do you recognize anyone?'

Mycroft scrolled through the pictures, snorting in disappointment when, after a few minutes, he had found nothing even vaguely promising. And then he froze.

Sherlock was watching him intently and immediately leaned over to see what had shocked Mycroft. The photograph on the screen showed a young Moriarty standing beside another young man, taller, with brown eyes and dark hair. They stood close, touching; Moriarty's arm was curled around the other man's back while his head was tilted and resting intimately on the taller man's shoulder.

Mycroft slumped on the sofa in a heap.

'What is it?' Sherlock asked.

'Moran...Sebastian Moran...This _is_ personal.'

Sherlock watched his brother navigate his thoughts.

Mycroft took a deep breath and related the incidents of the Kosovo rescue.

'Moriarty, Moran and I served in the 6 Regiment Army Air Corps of the Army Reserve. We were deployed as part of an airborne task force to extract a General who had defected from the Kosovo army. The extraction itself went like clockwork and Moran and I were last to get off the ground. Moriarty was covering us from the chopper. We ran towards it, under fire from the rebels. I was ahead of Moran. When we were just a few yards from the chopper, Moran suddenly slammed into me and we both fell flat on the ground. He wasn't breathing! I checked for a pulse but there was none. A bullet had ripped through his spine and the force threw him forwards on me. He was dead on the spot.'

He paused and Sherlock saw the horrors of those memories fleetingly reflected in Mycroft's eyes. He swallowed and continued.

'We never leave a man behind. So I pulled his arms around my shoulders and crawled towards the chopper. Moriarty let loose with an RPG and took out the entire shack housing the rebels and we made it on to the chopper. Moran actually saved me – his body sustained additional bullet wounds while lying on mine – he was inadvertently my human shield. I never, ever meant for that to happen. Had I lagged him, it would be my body being dragged home.

'Moriarty and Moran were rumoured to be lovers but the Army did not look kindly upon gays eight years back so they never made it official. We _have_ to find the link, Sherlock. This is somehow personal. What else do we know about Moran and Moriarty?'

Sherlock pulled up Toby's file on Moran on his laptop and showed it to Mycroft.

'Moran was married, no children. Suspected homosexual but never proven.'

He noticed Mycroft staring at Moriarty's photograph.

'Oh _God_! Rivers! That's Rivers!' Mycroft's eyes were wide with shock as he pointed at Moriarty.

'The Secretary of State for Defence? It can't be!'

'I'd recognize those eyes anywhere. This _is_ Seamus Rivers. I think he has had plastic surgery. How did I _miss_ that?'

'Let me get Toby and Billy on it.'

Sherlock started a Skype video chat with Toby and Billy and explained what he wanted. Ten minutes later, they had produced the results of their facial recognition comparison and their search on Rivers' profile.

'I've created a video', Toby said, 'showing how James Moriarty's face could be altered to Rivers' using plastic surgery to accentuate his cheekbones and chin with implants. Billy's found that official records for Seamus Rivers have only existed for 7 years. Interestingly, James Moriarty ceased to exist almost to the day that the persona of Rivers came into being'.

The twins had run an extensive search on Rivers' electronic activity and found that he had accessed emails tagged with their virus using the email address damhan_alla .uk from his personal computer.

'That's Gaelic for "spider"', Mycroft remarked. 'Oh! Oh! It fits. Moriarty is of Irish descent. Even the alias he chose – Seamus – is Gaelic for James. And his mother's maiden name was Brooks.'

'Mycroft, listen to this. The most recent transactions on both Broadchurch's account have been traced to Rivers' IP address. He's been operating Moriarty's account and making small monthly withdrawals and channeling them to Moran's widow's account under the guise of Army Pension payouts.'

Mycroft fell back against the sofa and let out a long breath.

'I understand now. Moriarty holds me responsible for Moran's death. He doesn't believe that Sebastian was dead on the spot. He thinks I used him for cover', his shaking voice dropped an octave as he struggled to fight the horrors of the past. 'Eight years, Sherlock. I've lived with survivor's guilt for the past eight years. And he resents me for being alive. Enough to almost have Father killed.'

'We've got him, brother', Sherlock said in a quiet voice, squeezing Mycroft's shoulder.

'You and I are going back tomorrow, Sherlock. I'm going to make an appointment with the PM.'

'Alright. I'll be ready.'

He sent John an email.

_Returning to London tomorrow. Watch the news._

_Do write._ _-SH_

John did not reply.

* * *

When they arrived in London, Mycroft telephoned the Prime Minister's office and secured an audience with him and the deputy PM. With Sherlock at his side, he presented their evidence, methodically walking the two men through the sequence of events. Sherlock interjected once in a while to shed light on the technicalities of their analysis. Rivers was immediately summoned to the PM's office, escorted by two burly security men.

'James Moriarty or Seamus Rivers. How should we address you?' the PM demanded.

Moriarty lunged at Mycroft but was quickly seized by Sherlock and the deputy PM.

'Fuck you, Mycroft! You hid behind him, you coward! He died so you could live, you bastard! You murdered him!'

'James', Mycroft said in a firm but kind voice. 'He was already dead. You know that. He was _already dead_ when he fell on me. You read the ME's report. We both did. No one survives a direct hit to the spinal cord. Do you think I haven't hated myself for living while he died? I am really so sorry. But you must believe me – he was already gone! There was _nothing_ I could have done!'

'I'll kill you, Mycroft! It should have been you in that grave, not Seb, you murderer!'

The PM stepped in, quickly wearying of the escalating emotions and wanting to wrap up this potentially devastating revelation of treason in his administration.

'David', he turned to the deputy PM. 'Take care of this, would you?'

'Yes, Prime Minister.'

They were led out of the PM's office. Moriarty was charged with treason and defrauding the British government and taken into custody, pending further investigation.

Britain's ever vigilant media somehow got wind of the story; the revelation that the Secretary of Defence, Seamus Rivers, was actually James Moriarty and had orchestrated the kidnapping of Dr. Siger Holmes took the country by storm. Provocative headlines flashed in newspapers and on 24-hour news channels, detailing the Holmes brothers' investigations.

_BOFFIN BRAVES BATTLE TO RESCUE FATHER!_

_DEFENCE SECY. RIVERS TRIED FOR KIDNAPPING AND TREASON! HOLMES EXONERATED_

_SAS STEALTH ATTACK SAVES BRITISH DOCTOR! _

_CAVENDISH FAMILY GRIEVES – GIVEN HERO'S FAREWELL_

_EX-SAS HITMAN KILLED!_

Sherlock's days of anonymity were temporarily at an end. He was photographed at Tesco, dancing in clubs, on University grounds, everywhere. Mycroft was restored to his position as Permanent Secretary and his reinstatement came with an added bonus – a lovely assistant named Anthea. Molly and the boys were overjoyed to see their tousled leader return. Molly cooed over him, trying to get him to show her his battle scars and flinched when he summarily put paid to any romantic fantasies she might be entertaining.

Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street and stood for a long moment looking at the closed door to 221A.

* * *

John Watson read every article he could find on the daring rescue of Siger Holmes by Sherlock and the five SAS officers. He read every follow up article he could find on Sherlock. He googled his ex-lover and stared at his photographs. He saved the articles and photographs on his laptop.

John soldiered on with his battered heart; his work at Limaaz General Hospital provided an excellent distraction and he threw himself into his work, executing every task he was assigned tirelessly, be it surgery, post-surgical care or even administrative duties. John's natural empathy and innate composure did not go unnoticed and he was assigned to the Trauma unit where he became very sought after for his ability to help calm critically wounded soldiers and soothe them through the worst of their suffering.

The other RAMC doctors and nurses naturally gravitated towards his easy smile and welcoming warmth and he never found himself alone while on duty. It was when he retired to his quarters that the looming emptiness of his personal life swallowed him.

A few weeks later, he received an email from Sherlock. It made him smile.

_Mycroft asked me to help one of his rich friends. The idiot's money was being siphoned out of his account without his knowledge and there was no record of fraudulent activity. It was his wife, obviously! And he had no idea! She was having an affair and he didn't suspect a thing. The moron is orange! (Must be overdosing on carrots and/or Vitamin A pills). If his wife didn't notice, it's because she wasn't paying attention! Could it get any simpler? It makes me question Mycroft's judgment that he is friends with imbeciles. _

_Good night, John._

_Do write.-SH_

John did not reply. A month later, he received another email from Sherlock.

_Molly, from Oxford, invited me to her home for Christmas dinner. I've never been so bored. I managed to pass the time by deducing the guests. To myself, of course. I didn't talk to anyone and they kept away from me. Molly introduced me to a Detective Inspector at NSY. Greg Lestrade. He's tolerable. He's started taking me on his cases. His Sergeant is sleeping with his Chief of Forensics. She was wearing his deodorant and her knees were scuffed. You know what that means...I wasn't going to say anything but she called me 'freak', so I saw no point in being nice._

_Do write._ _-SH_

Sherlock became an integral resource in Lestrade's arsenal, solving unsolvable cases, catching serial killers, retrieving stolen jewels, bringing down smuggling operations and foiling museum heists long before Lestrade's team of trained Sergeants and Forensic experts. He emailed detailed notes about each case he solved to John. Each message was met with radio silence. John kept everything. But John didn't write back. He read every one of Sherlock's emails, unable to understand _why_ he still kept in touch.

_Why do you write to me? I know you don't love me. You've made it plain that you don't even want me. Why, then, won't you leave me alone? Leave me alone, Sherlock! Each email from you picks at my scabs. Let me heal. Please. Leave me alone. You don't want me. What am I to you? Do I still matter? Do you think of me? Could it be that you like me…just a little? I look at our pictures every night. We looked happy, Sherlock. I go to sleep with thoughts of you and our last night together. I love you. I love you. I always will. But please, let me go!_

* * *

On John's twenty-fifth birthday, he received another email from Sherlock. The email also included a picture of Sherlock's hip with the tattoo of an orange-and-red unicorn with its wings spread.

_Happy birthday, John. This is washable. If you like it, I'll have it done permanently. If not, I have other patterns to show you._

_Do write. -SH_

He emailed Sherlock.

_Sherlock,_

_Thank you for your wishes. I hope you are doing well. I will be deployed to different cities and hospitals in the area and access to email will be sporadic. I am sure you understand._

_- John._

Sherlock replied the next day.

_John,_

_Am I to understand that you will not respond to my emails?_

_Do write. - SH_

John responded the same day.

_Sherlock,_

_Short answer – Yes._

_Long answer - I'm sorry. I wasn't being completely honest. Yes, I will be deployed to different cities and hospitals but email access will not be affected. I just need some time to think things through. I can see you wish to keep in contact but it's very difficult for me to come to terms with my feelings. I hope you understand if I don't respond. I will understand if you choose not to write anymore._

_John._

Sherlock's emails stopped.

* * *

John was called to the Comm Centre on Christmas Eve. Someone had telephoned for him.

'Watson speaking.'

'John…' The voice at the other end of the line was the unmistakable baritone of Sherlock Holmes.

John stiffened.

'What is it, Sherlock? Why have you called?'

'I called to wish my friend a Happy Christmas.'

'OK, let me not keep you then. What's your friend's name so I can call him or her to the phone?'

'Are you really so dull or are you trying to be funny? I'm calling to speak to you. It's Christmas tomorrow and I thought I'd give you an advance gift. A telephone call from me.'

'It's presumptuous of me to think you're my friend and it's presumptuous of you to think I'd want a call from you as a gift for Christmas.'

'Come on, John. We both know I am and that you would.'

'Not really, Sherlock. You _think_ I would. A lot has changed.'

'Has it indeed?'

'Yes. Anyway, why are you calling really?'

'I want to know why you won't write to me. Do you read my emails? My case notes?'

'Yes, I read everything. Your case work is very interesting and you're obviously very good at it. Is that what you want to be? "Consulting Detective"?'

'Yes, it is.'

'That's great. Terrific, really. And I wish you the best. Anyway, I have to go now.'

'John…'

'Yes, Sherlock.'

'Why won't you write to me?'

'We both know the answer to that, Sherlock. I see no point in stating the obvious.'

'It's not obvious to me.'

'If it's obvious to my _dull_ mind, I know it can't have escaped yours. Especially as I _told_ you the reason.'

'John…'

'Yes, Sherlock, what is it now?'

'I _do_ want something with you.'

'What _exactly_ do you want with me?'

'I don't know, alright? I don't know! But there _is_ something between us.'

'That's a wonderful realization, Sherlock, but it's two years too late. I'm trying to move on.'

'You're not moving on. You can't. You said you'll always love me.'

'I did say that, yes.'

'But you don't say it anymore.'

'You didn't want to hear me say it. And, as I said, things have changed.'

'No, they have not!'

'Maybe they have changed, maybe not. It really doesn't matter! I don't know how short-lived _your_ memories are but I remember perfectly well how things ended the last time we met, Sherlock. So…I am moving on. At least I'm trying to and you should too.'

'Is there someone else?'

'I really don't see how that can be any concern of yours.'

Sherlock didn't respond.

'Alright then, Sherlock. I really must get back to work. Goodbye.'

John hung up.

The next day, Sherlock sent him an email.

_Happy Christmas, John._

_Do write._ _-SH_

His reply was brief.

_Thank you, Sherlock. I wish you a Happy Christmas too._

_-John_

* * *

A few weeks later, John received another email from Sherlock.

_You like music, don't you? I'd suggest you don't buy an MP3 player that's already unboxed. The owner of Music Box reported that a whole shipment of MP3 players was stolen. Signed for and delivered but they started disappearing at the rate of two or three a week. Surveillance footage showed no unusual activity. So Lestrade called me in. Once again, it was an open and shut case. One of the associates was refusing to sit down. He shuffled about uneasily and walked with his thighs unnaturally apart. As a doctor, I'm sure you know where I'm going with this. He was smuggling MP3 players out of the store by shoving them up his arse! I offered to tell him about more gratifying things he could be shoving up there. Lestrade was not amused. Honestly, the DI needs to subject potential recruits to some sort of IQ test before hiring for his team. They are mentally deficient._

_Do write._ _-SH_

John did not reply.

Then one day, a few months later, John again received a phone call.

'Watson speaking.'

'It's my birthday today.'

'That's wonderful, Sherlock.'

'You didn't know, so you couldn't wish me. Now you do and therefore, you can. I'm twenty-three today.'

'Alright, Sherlock. Happy twenty-third birthday. I'm going to hang up now.'

'Please don't! I want to speak to you.'

'What about?'

'Nothing in particular. I want to hear your voice.'

'My voice. Why?'

'It's what I want for my birthday.'

'That's very romantic but that's not you. What do you want? Really?'

'I want to hear your voice. I have never lied to you, John. I want to hear your voice.'

'Alright, you've heard it. I have to go.'

'Will you write to me?'

'No.'

'I want something with you. I genuinely do!'

'Sherlock… you're being cruel to me.'

Sherlock sensed he had breached a barrier and pushed on.

'No! I mean it! John…Please. Give me a chance, please!'

'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I cannot. I was very hurt. I still am. It's been over two years and I need to move on. You're being cruel to expect me to stay hanging while you decide how much or how little you want with me. I'm trying to let you go, Sherlock. It's your turn. Let me go.'

'You can't let me go! And _I_ can't let _you_ go! Don't you see?'

'I don't. And Sherlock, please don't call me anymore.'

John hung up.

* * *

John's twenty-sixth birthday arrived. John's twenty-sixth birthday passed. There was no email from Sherlock and no telephone call either. The disappointment was crippling.

Between the gruesome injuries he witnessed daily in the Trauma unit and his obsession with the man he would never have, he was sure he would go insane. The monotony and futility of his routine was soul-sucking – wake up, treat young soldiers with terrible, often life-threatening wounds, have lunch, treat more injured soldiers, return to quarters, have dinner, go to bed, wake up…

And then, a potential respite in John's dreary existence arrived in the form of Dr. Mary Morstan, a petite blond who had just been assigned to Limaaz General Hospital. They took an immediate liking to each other and within a few weeks, their halting conversations had progressed to a comfortable and unaffected friendship which Mary seemed amenable to take to the next level.

John's masturbatory efforts provided meagre relief at best. What he craved was real sex and unthinking release - hot bodies mindlessly fucking till his orgasm took over and washed away his hurt, his suffering, if only for a few minutes of ecstasy. He analyzed the facts: (a) Dr. Morstan was very pretty (b) he was single, healthy and attracted to her (c) she was single, healthy and attracted to him (d) Sherlock didn't give a shit about him. There was only one thing to do. He asked Dr. Morstan out to dinner and she accepted.

John and Mary were about to head to a Middle Eastern restaurant for dinner when he heard a voice call out to him.

'John! How are you, mate?' It was Bill Murray. 'I was in the area and thought I'd check in and see how you were doing.'

'It's great to see you, Bill! How are you? And how's Victor?'

'You know Victor, still cursing Foster for sending us out to hot zone. I'm doing well! It's really good to see you. Have you heard from Sherlock?'

'No…no I haven't.'

John's hands balled into fists, his fingers digging into his palm. He quickly changed the subject.

'Mary, meet Bill Murray. Bill, this is Dr. Mary Morstan. Bill was on the SAS team that extracted Dr. Siger Holmes from his kidnappers.'

'Nice to meet you, Doctor.'

'Please, call me Mary.'

'Nice to meet you, Mary', Bill revised his greeting with a smile.

'John and I are heading out for dinner. I would love to hear about your adventures in Rishayat. This girl could do with a little excitement', she said with a pointed look at John. 'John, would it alright if Bill joined us?'

'That would be terrific! Let's go', John said with a forced smile.

Bill turned out to be an engaging raconteur and gave them a dramatic description of Siger Holmes' heroic rescue and John's tireless care of a wounded Sherlock.

'Honestly, John, I thought you had a thing for Sherlock. I didn't realize you knew him from London.'

'Really?' Mary asked.

'We were just neighbours from our condo building. We started talking a bit in the lift – twenty-two floors is a long way up. You tend to talk to kill time, you know?' John deflected.

'John wouldn't leave his side. Victor and I had returned to Rishayat to pick up Cav and Rasheed and John could barely stand, he was so tired.'

'I'm a doctor. That's what we do. Anyway, I was only there a couple of days.'

'Victor was really smitten with Sherlock. The horny bastard starts panting at the first sight of hot male arse. And Sherlock could stop traffic, yeah? Hell, I'm straight and I'd turn to look at him!' he laughed.

'I really wouldn't know', John laughed feebly.

'Hey, let me get a picture to show the chaps back in Kumaan. Say cheese!'

John smiled and felt Mary's lips touch his cheeks just as the flash on Murray's mobile phone went off. Surprised, he turned to look at her and her lips pressed against his when, unseen by John, Murray's flash went off again. Mary took a photograph of John and Bill and then held the phone up to get a group photo.

The conversation mellowed over dinner and wine and a couple of hours later, they said their goodbyes. Murray drove back to Kumaan while John and Mary headed back to their RAMC quarters.

'John. I really like you. I'm sure you know that', Mary blushed.

'I really like you too, Mary.'

'I was wondering if you might want to come over for a nightcap.'

'I'd love to.'

He took Mary's hand in his and they walked in quick silence to her quarters. No sooner was the door shut behind them than her lips were on his, softly pressing and parting, kissing him, licking his lips apart with her wet tongue, venturing inside the hot cavern of his mouth as he returned lick for lick, kiss for kiss in a moist, noisy caress. His hands ran down her back and stopped on her pert bottom and squeezed. She let out a soft squeal of delight and he grinned against her lips, bringing his hands around to her front, slowly tracing a path up with his fingertips till he reached her breasts. He cupped the supple globes and very gently squeezed and kneaded the yielding flesh through the silky fabric of her blouse. Overcome with desire, he expertly undid the buttons on her blouse and pushed it open to reveal a black lacy bra.

'Oh, John', she breathed as his lips traced a searing path down her neck into the dip between her breasts. His hands pushed the straps of her bra off her shoulders and he pushed the cups down bunching them below her breasts, pale and soft, dark pink nipples begging to be ravaged by his mouth. And he obliged, dipping his head to draw one pert nipple into a long, filthy suck, pulling her flesh away from her body with each suck.

And then, without warning, memories came flooding back and, in his mind, Mary's soft mounds were replaced by a pale, flat chest, masculine, covered with soft, sparse hair arrowing down to a muscled abdomen. And Mary's face dissolved into a man's imperious visage with a pale, broad forehead onto which errant, dark curls tumbled, flouting all attempts by their owner to control them. Hypnotic eyes that saw into his very soul. Impossibly sharp cheekbones that dipped into hollow cheeks which softened into the most beautiful lips he had seen. Lips that had told him that he, John Watson, was better than sex. That he gave him peace. And John knew he had lost. He shattered.

'I'm sorry, Mary. I'm so sorry but I can't do this. I should never have started this. I'm sorry but I'm in love with someone else.'

Mary shrank back, her eyes stinging with the rejection as she pulled her blouse back on.

'I'm so sorry, Mary. Please, forgive me. Please. I should not have done this.'

'You got that right. Fuck you, John. Get. Out. Now.'

John turned around and walked out of Mary's flat. He winced when he heard the door slam behind him and dragged himself to his flat. By force of habit, he checked his email. There were no new emails. A week later, he capitulated and sent Sherlock an email.

_Have you let me go?_

_-John_

A reply arrived three agonizing days later.

_Tried and failed. Was trying to stay alive. Sorry I missed wishing you on your birthday. Happy Birthday._

_Do write. -SH_

John replied immediately.

_Thank you. Please stay alive. There are people who would be very unhappy if you were to leave them._

_- John _

Sherlock read John's email and fell on his bed, curled up into himself, weak, destroyed with happiness. He wrote in his journal.

_#21. He wrote. He cares. Why am I so relieved? He would not be pleased if he knew how close I came to being shot last week. He still cares. He still cares. I want him back. Please come back, John. Come back. Come back._

They exchanged Christmas and New Year greetings.

Sherlock's sporadic emails resumed and John wore a smile on the days that he received a message from his ex-neighbour.

John sent Sherlock an email on his twenty-fourth birthday.

_Happy birthday, Sherlock._

_You said you wanted something with me. What do you want from me?_

_-John_

_Thank you, John. You remembered._

_I still do. I want anything you'll give me._

_Do write._ _–SH_

_Seriously, Sherlock, __what__ do you want with me? Please, be honest with me._

_-John_

_I was being honest with you, John. I want anything you'll give me. I'll take anything._

_Do write._ _ –SH_

_Is 'Do write. -SH' your email signature? _

_-John_

_My email signature is '–SH'. 'Do write' only goes out to you._

_-SH_

_Does that make me special?_

_-John_

_Very. You have no idea how special._

_-SH_

_I told you what I feel for you. How do you feel about that?_

_-John _

_You wrote "what I feel for you", not "what I felt for you". Do you realize the implications of your statement or is that simply a grammatical oversight?_

_-SH _

_That's really terrific, Sherlock. Be supercilious when someone's opening up to you. Sadly, yes. I still feel that way. _

_-John_

_I apologize. It was not my intention to be supercilious. I merely wanted unequivocal confirmation of your meaning._

_I have trouble expressing sentiment. I understand, or think I understand, what you feel. I can't put a label on what I feel but there is something that I only feel for you. It's more intense than anything I have experienced. And I won't give that up without a fight. I can't._

_-SH_

_So, Sherlock Holmes is fighting for me. I must be special. :)_

_-John_

_Yes, he is. And yes, you are. And kindly refrain from behaving like a teenager and including emoticons (I'm rolling my eyes as I write this) in your emails. You are an adult. A twenty-six year old man of science! Please grow up._

_-SH_

_Alright, Dad. I'll grow up! I get a month off soon. I'll be flying back to London. Would you like to see me?_

_-John_

_You expressed your distaste for stating the obvious but it would seem you expect me to do just that._

_-SH_

_I'll take that as a yes. I'll send you my details when I land. Is it alright if I say I want to see you again?_

_-John_

_It is. And I want to see you again, too._

_-SH_

_You want to see me again? _

_-John_

_Sorry. Ignore that. :-D Your emails no longer say 'Do write.' How come?_

_-John_

_Because you're writing to me! Really, John! Sometimes you can be quite daft. It makes me wonder why I like you so much._

_-SH_

_You like me?_

_-John_

_Back to stating the obvious, are we? In that case, do you like me?_

_-SH_

_I'll tell you when I see you._

_-John_

_I await your arrival with bated breath. _

_-SH_

* * *

Sherlock stood in his balcony, smoking. John had been deployed to Huraayatin for the past two weeks and did not have email access. He sent John an email wishing him for his twenty-seventh birthday and smiled as he hit Send. He felt something akin to happiness and hope. It was an unfamiliar feeling. His smile faded to a frown when his mobile phone rang and he looked at it in slight annoyance. Sherlock preferred to text. _This better not be Mycroft._

'Sherlock Holmes', he answered.

'Hi Sherlock. It's Bill Murray! How are you?'

'Oh, hello Bill! How are you?'

'I'm well, mate. I'm in London, actually, and was wondering if you wanted to pop out for a pint tonight. If you're free, that is. I know this is really short notice!'

'No, it's fine! Meet you at the Fox and Whistle at 7?'

'See you there!'

Murray and Sherlock grabbed a table by the window for a bit of quiet conversation.

'You're looking good, Sherlock. It's really great to see you again.'

'Likewise, Bill. I'm glad you called. You must visit Father before you head back. Speaking of, how long will you be here?'

'Two weeks. Hey, guess who I met again in Limaaz.'

'_Whom_. Guess _whom_ I met', Sherlock corrected with a patient smile.

'Yes, yes, we weren't all educated at Buckingham Palace like some posh gits', Murray laughed. 'Well, do you want to know or not?'

'Oh, please. Tell me, Bill. I can't stand the suspense!' Sherlock whined in mock desperation.

'John. John Watson.'

Sherlock paused.

'Ah. And how is John?'

'He's doing really well at the Hospital. They've assigned him to the Trauma Unit. He's one of the best they've got in that unit – highest success rate with critically injured soldiers. And, on a happier note, I've got some pictures.'

Murray pulled out his mobile phone and quickly scrolled through his photos to stop on the pictures of John, Mary and himself that they had taken over dinner.

Sherlock eagerly reached out for Murray's phone but his fingers tightened around it when he saw the picture of Mary kissing John's smiling cheek and then felt physically sick at the picture of their lips pressed together in a sweet kiss.

'Great pictures. John's looking well. Thanks', he mumbled and handed the phone back.

He managed to make pleasant conversation for another hour and then, the moment he was alone waiting for a taxi, he emailed John.

_Is there someone else? Please. Tell me._

_-SH_

John should have returned to Limaaz but there was no reply.

The following day, Sherlock telephoned Limaaz General Hospital and asked to speak to John. He was informed that Dr. Watson no longer worked there. He emailed John.

_John, where are you? I called Limaaz but was told you no longer work at the hospital. Where are you? _

_Do write. Please._ _-SH_

_John, where are you? Why won't you reply? Is there someone else? Please tell me. _

_Do write. -SH_

_John, please reply. It's not like you to be cruel. _

_Do write. Please. Write. -SH_

A few weeks passed and every day, Sherlock pleaded with John to write to him and never received a reply. And then one morning, John replied.

_Can we meet today at 1? I'm at my sister's. Harry Watson, 35 King's Crescent. Let me know._

_-John_

Sherlock replied immediately.

_I'll be there._

_-SH_

At precisely 1 p.m., Sherlock knocked on the door to 35 King's Crescent. A short blonde woman answered the door, a dead-ringer for John. Twins.

'You must be Sherlock. Come in. I'm Harry, John's sister. He's expecting you.'

Sherlock followed Harry into the living room of a cozy house with a floral couch and quaint furniture. The walls were bare. He looked around, taking in his surroundings and then his eyes stopped on John. His hair was cut short, army style, and his body was tanned and fit. The light reflected off a few strands of gray in his blond hair and his face seemed a little weathered, tired. He was sitting on the sofa, one arm thrown over the seat back while the other hand slowly ran up and down his thigh.

'John!' Sherlock cried out, unable to contain his thrill at seeing John again.

'Hello, Sherlock. Please, sit.'

_John is nervous. Why is he nervous? It's almost as though he doesn't want to see me._

'John, John! Oh God, John!' Sherlock went up to him in two long strides and knelt before him, trying to take him in an embrace but John pushed him back.

'What's going on? Why are you pushing me away?'

'There's something I want to talk to you about. Please sit.'

Sherlock rose to his feet and stood in the middle of the small room, waiting and unsure, filled with a sense of foreboding about John's next words.

'I think we should call time on our... it's not really a relationship, is it? It's some kind of weird long-distance association.'

'I see you after two years and you open with a joke. That's fine. What else do you want to joke about today, John?' Sherlock was not amused.

'I'm serious, Sherlock. I find myself at a crossroads, wanting more but not sure what. And it's not fair to ask you to wait while I try to figure out what I want in life. I am not in a state to commit to something serious with you or anyone else. So it's best that we part ways.'

'This is not funny, John.'

'It's not intended to be funny. I'm very serious.'

'No, you're not. You would not leave me. You can't! I know you love me. I know it because _you_ told me.' Sherlock's voice had taken on a petulant whine, like an insecure child who could not believe that his favourite person in the world suddenly didn't like him anymore. His calm was beginning to show cracks of vulnerability.

'I _did _love you, Sherlock. I really did. But I don't love you anymore. People change. I've seen things in Dikhsaar that have changed my outlook. I find myself wanting a stable, ordinary life. A wife, a family, a house in the suburbs, a small private practice. And you, you deserve to be with someone who is able to value you for the magnificent person you are. And that isn't me anymore. I am ready to settle down but didn't want to make a change without speaking to you first.'

'John, don't do this. If I really am magnificent, why don't _you_ want me anymore?' Sherlock pleaded. 'You said you'd always love me and that you'd always look for me. And you did! Have you fallen out of love with me in the space of a few months?' His voice was hoarse, unable to mask the depth of his hurt.

'I'm sorry. I really am but people change, Sherlock! And I changed too. I hadn't met too many people then. I hadn't really _lived_. But I have, now. I want to find a nice woman with whom I can raise a family. You and I - we're just two nice people not meant for each other. I wanted you to tell you in person, as soon as I arrived in London. I don't like long-distance breakups.'

'You've found someone else, haven't you?'

'What?' John was flummoxed.

'Mary', Sherlock spat out the name.

'What? Why would…How do you know about Mary?'

Sherlock was silent. John shook his head, completely thrown off his train of thought by the mention of Mary. _No! I'll figure that one out later. I have to deal with Sherlock first. This ends today._

'Are you OK? You'll be OK. This is just a blip. You're a resilient man and there are so many better people you can meet. Smarter, better looking', John said with a wry laugh. 'Taller', he added as an afterthought.

Sherlock's eyes burned holes in John. He looked angry. Shocked. But above all, John saw that he looked betrayed.

'I'm sorry Sherlock but I've got to get some things done. I appreciate your stopping by. I wish you the best. I always will.'

Sherlock stood, stunned into silence. His eyes wouldn't leave John's as he tried to gauge the veracity of his words. But John's expression stayed open and genuine. Sherlock had lost John. He got up to leave. When he was at the door, he turned around.

'I hate you, John Watson.'

When John heard the door click shut he whispered 'I hate myself more.'

Harry had entered the room and was glaring at him in utter disbelief.

'What the _fuck_ was that, Johnny?' Harry shouted.

'It was what it was. It's done.'

'You _love_ that mad bastard. You've loved him for years! I know it! Why would you send him away?'

'It's for his sake, Harry.'

'His sake? Really? How?'

'I will only drag him down.'

'What are you talking about?!'

'Forget it. I don't want to talk about it. I'll be out of your hair soon.'

* * *

**Chapter Notes**

The Orange Man and MP3 player cases are borrowed from clinic cases in the brilliant TV series House M.D. I'd highly, highly recommend that show. Interestingly, the character of Gregory House is based on Sherlock Holmes. :)


	6. Come back to me

Chapter Summary: Siblings are not all bad, sex, a little more heartache...but it's always darkest before the dawn, no?

The beginning of the (happy) end...

* * *

**Come back** **to me**

_Come back to me – Uriah Heep_

_Alone again, I feel so alone again_

_With this emptiness I just can't hide_

_Picture me with a broken heart_

_See the tears run down my face_

_Everything I had has gone_

_Everything is gone_

_Loneliness still lingering on_

_Everything I thought was mine_

_Come back to me_

_Can't we try it one more time_

_Come back to me_

Sherlock's thoughts were caught in a dizzying loop on something John had said.

_I don't love you anymore._ _I don't love you anymore. I don't love you anymore. Idon'tloveyouanymore. Idon'tloveyouanymore. Idon'tloveyouanymore. Idon'tloveyouanymore. Idon'tloveyouanymore. Idon'tloveyouanymore. Idon'tloveyouanymore. Idon'tloveyouanymore. Idon'tloveyouanymore._

Sherlock staggered back to 221B, not knowing or caring how he got there. He couldn't recall if he rode the Tube or took a taxi and it didn't matter. He walked out to the balcony and lit a cigarette, thinking back to the time he had stood on John's balcony with their arms wrapped around each other. Now John had unequivocally informed him that he didn't want to have anything to do with him. And Sherlock's chest felt empty as though his heart had bled to nothingness. Was this what dying felt like? Looking down twenty-two floors at the miniature figures and vehicles moving about on Baker Street, he wondered if falling was just like flying but with a more permanent destination. It might be interesting to find out. He leaned forward, his arms spread like wings, his torso precariously tilting into empty air, his body held on solid ground only by his hips and legs which were pressed against the balcony railing. He felt weightless. Detached. And then he was pulled back by his phone buzzing with a text message.

_I'm in town. Want to catch up?_

_-Victor_

Sherlock stared at the message.

_John doesn't want me. He doesn't love me anymore. But Victor wants me. I'll show John that I don't need him. I don't need him. I hate him. I hate him! I hate him! I HATE JOHN WATSON! He doesn't want me. He doesn't love me. Why doesn't he love me anymore? I hate him._

Sherlock texted back.

_221B Baker Street. 7 p.m._

_- SH_

A few seconds later, he received a reply.

_Can't wait to see you. I'll be there. _

_-Victor _

Something snapped in Sherlock. He knew there was something electric between Victor and him – animal lust of the most elemental kind. And tonight, he just wanted to be held down and fucked raw. Abused. And he knew the SAS man would be willing. He also recalled how Victor had looked at him in Huraayatin. _Time to play dress-up_ he thought, a sly smirk breaking across his face.

At 7 p.m. sharp, the concierge buzzed Sherlock's flat to announce he had a visitor. Victor rode up the lift and knocked on the door to 221B. He heard the latch turn, the door opened and he was looking into magnetic gray eyes.

'Oh god!' he gasped. Sherlock stood before him, dressed in a black silk _shalwaar-kameez_, his kohl-lined slate eyes burning into Victor whose pupils were blown wide with desire. A gray-and-white chequered turban was loosely wrapped around his head.

Sherlock clasped his wrist and pulled him inside. The moment the door closed behind them, Victor pushed Sherlock against a wall, tore the turban off and slammed his mouth against the younger man's, biting those plush lips till they reddened, licking sloppily against them, demanding entrance into that beautiful mouth but Sherlock turned his face and Victor had to content himself with licking his cheeks. He thrust his hands into Sherlock's curls and growled against his neck.

'I'm going to fuck you tonight, Sherlock. I'll fuck you till you can't walk.'

'Excellent. That is just what I had in mind.'

Victor hissed and grabbed Sherlock's arse cheeks which sat soft and yielding under the silken fabric. 'Fuck, you're not wearing any pants.'

'Seemed redundant', Sherlock said with a lazy shrug.

'Bastard', he hissed into Sherlock's neck, still kneading his cheeks. 'I'm going to come in my pants. Where the fuck is your bedroom?'

'That way', Sherlock said, cocking his head in the direction of a dark corridor.

Victor grasped his wrist and strode towards the bedroom, dragging Sherlock with him. When he opened the door, the flaming tongues of a dozen candles were throwing dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling. A light sheen reflected off the dark sheets covering Sherlock's huge king-size mattress. The air was heady with a tantalizing lavender aroma from the candles.

'Fuck. This is a harem, not a bedroom. '

He tilted Sherlock's head up to capture his lips in a brutal kiss, his tongue an invading force against the fortress of Sherlock's pursed lips.

'Let me in', he breathed against Sherlock's closed lips.

'No. Not on the mouth', Sherlock growled.

'What the hell kind of kinky rule is that?'

'It's my rule. Take it or leave it.'

'You're fucking weird, you know? But I want you bad, so I'll live with that.'

And he did. Victor splayed one hand on the small of Sherlock's back to pull him close while his other hand crept down his chest and flat stomach and further down till it paused on his cock. Slowly his fingers closed in around the hard flesh and he squeezed. Sherlock mewled into Victor's neck and his hips instinctively thrust against the hand.

'Soon…babe…soon. I want to fuck you so hard, but I also like you, you bastard. I don't want to hurt you. I've thought about you while wanking off.'

Victor dropped to his knees before Sherlock and, without ceremony, placed his open mouth on Sherlock's cock, his saliva seeping through the shiny fabric in a wet, obscene kiss. His tongue darted out to lick his cloth-covered length and Victor tilted his head to suck on Sherlock's balls, pushing out more spit to saturate the region and then pulled back to see the cloth bunched in small, wet folds around Sherlock's groin, throwing its shape into sharp relief.

'Fuck. Fuck. You look so dirty. I can clearly tell where your cock ends and your balls begin, you exotic fiend.'

Heavy-lidded wild eyes looked down at him through thick lashes; beautiful, plump lips were parted to let long pants of breath through. Victor stood up trying to claim that sinful mouth by licking inside in an open kiss but snarled when Sherlock pushed him away.

'I said not on the mouth.'

_You're not John. You're not John._

'Bastard.'

Victor saw Sherlock smirking at him and then Sherlock slapped him. Lightly but enough for his cheek to sting.

'What the fuck? So you want it rough. Fine. I'll give it to you rough', he hissed and caught Sherlock's wrists and twisted them behind his back, pinning them together with one large hand. Sherlock's shoulders strained and squeezed and his chest arched out against the pain and Victor's mouth fell, wet and open on a taut nipple straining against the black silk _kameez_.

'You care about these clothes?' he asked roughly.

Sherlock shook his head, slowly, sensually.

Victor growled and ripped open the delicate _kameez_, the sound of the rending fabric shooting sparks of delight to his cock. He crudely tore the _kameez_ off Sherlock's body and his breath hitched at the sight of the tight, pale torso suddenly on display. An animal passion overcame him and he bit down on Sherlock's chest, the pale man's cry of pain egging him on to greater lust and he darted out his tongue to lick and suck his nipple over and over.

'You beautiful, erotic creature. So sweet. So fucking sweet. I could lick you all day. I'm going to fuck you raw.'

_Why don't you love me anymore, John? I'm going to be fucked by another man. How do you feel about that?_

'So what exactly are you waiting for?' Sherlock teased, one eyebrow cocked seductively.

Victor grasped the fabric of Sherlock's loose _shalwaar_ in both hands and ripped it open, letting the tattered garment float to the floor in a black diaphanous heap. And then Victor's mouth fell open. A long, pale body stood before him, the dips and swells of lean muscles catching shadows from the flickering candlelight. Hypnotic, kohl-lined eyes watched him and looked into him; beautiful cheekbones slanted down into sunken cheeks that bloomed into plump, bow-shaped lips made for kissing. A proud chin marked the apex of a strong jawline that sat atop a long, slender neck which itself sloped into lithely muscled shoulders underlined by prominent collar bones above a sculpted chest that was dotted with a few moles and two beautiful, dusky nipples that were currently aroused to small dark nubs. A dusting of chest hair arrowed down, over thin skin stretched over a flat belly, towards the fount of Sherlock's manhood - a dusky, magnificent erection, long, thick and twitching, that promised Victor deep and dark secrets of sex.

'Fuck. Look at you. Fuck. You're beautiful, Sherlock. I'm going to suck you and make you come down my throat. I want to taste your come.'

He walked Sherlock backwards till his legs were flush against the bed and pushed him down to lie flat on his back.

'Are you clean?' he asked.

'Yes.'

'I mean…'

'I know what you mean. I'm clean – no STDs and I'm clean – hygienic.'

'You think you know everything, don't you?'

'No, I just know what you like', Sherlock retorted.

'Spread your legs, smart-arse and let me get in there', he husked and Sherlock acquiesced.

'Fuck, fuck, look at you all spread out for me. I'm going to lick you, babe. Turn over. Come on. Let me see your pretty arse.'

Sherlock turned over and rested his hips on a pillow to push up his arse. Strong, warm hands grasped the twin globes and squeezed and kneaded the taut flesh a few times, leaving reddened marks when he released them. Victor pushed Sherlock's thighs apart and tried to fit himself between them but his shoulders were too broad.

'Lift up', he said, lightly slapping Sherlock's hip. Sherlock wiggled his hips up lewdly and back till he was kneeling, his torso slanting down and forehead resting on his forearms crossed above his head. A tremor ran through him when warm breath huffed along his cleft that now lay gaping and open to Victor in a humiliating pose of submission. Victor was sniffing him and then a cry of pain and pleasure fled his mouth as he felt teeth clamp down on his arse cheek hard enough to hurt. And then Victor bit down on the other cheek.

'You smell so good. So clean. Look at my marks on your arse. Beautiful. Fuck, you're a fucking delight, Sherlock', he breathed and pressed his lips gently to the angry marks left by his teeth and Sherlock felt goose bumps rise on his skin as a tongue darted out to wetly lave his bruises.

'Condom and lube', Victor muttered and a small foil package and tube were tossed in his direction. Sherlock heard the tube snap open and gasped when his cleft thrilled to the feel of cool slick fluid slowly making its way from the top of his cleft down to his balls and his cheeks spontaneously clenched, trying to hold the lube inside and then released with a wet smack. Victor immediately placed two fingers over Sherlock's balls to scoop up the dripping lube and ran the slick digits up his cleft, all the way to the top and then down again, fully coating the sensitive stretch of dusky skin with the fluid.

When Sherlock heard a rip, he raised his head to look back and saw Victor roll the condom onto his tongue. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine but Victor's large hand pushed his head back down onto his forearm and then Sherlock felt another huff of warm breath along his crack. An involuntary, and loud, cry broke free from Sherlock's lips as a heavy and hard tongue licked a long, broad stripe up his cleft and then down and up again and down and he mewled pitiably when the tongue stopped at his hole, circling on, around and inside the pucker, stretching that excited little hole and then curiously pushing in and retreating and pushing in and retreating again in a tantalizingly predictable pattern that quickened in tempo and left him sobbing with pleasure. The insistent tongue continued to penetrate him, rapidly and deeper each time, pulling out only to invade with greater force and depth on the next ingress. And then the flicking stopped while the tongue stayed inside his hole.

_John. John. I wanted you to do this to me. And I wanted to do this to you. I want everything with you. Why have you left me?_

Sherlock involuntarily whimpered in protest at the cessation of stimulation but his cry soon became a moan of pleasure when a second blunt object assailed his tight hole as Victor introduced a slick finger into the mix. And a then a second finger. Tongue and fingers violated Sherlock's slick sphincter, coaxing him to relax under their ministrations and then the tongue pulled out and the Sherlock felt loose and empty until the space it had vacated was plugged by a third finger, longer, thicker, harder and he bit his lips and groaned at the burn. Victor lifted his head to slip the condom off his tongue and leaned over Sherlock's body to lick the small of his back as he focused on getting Sherlock ready with his fingers by ramming into his red-rimmed hole that was now open and relaxed, easily accepting the girth of his intrusive digits. While one hand relentlessly pierced Sherlock over and over, Victor licked and nipped his young lover's beautiful globes and ran the nails of his other hand over the back of Sherlock's thighs, scratching and squeezing painfully, listening to his lover's debauched howls of pleasure. When he felt Sherlock was nice and loose, he pulled his fingers out gently.

'I think it's my turn now, yeah?' he asked softly, as Sherlock fell face down onto the bed, panting. He watched that beautiful back rise and fall with the force of his breath, the reddened flesh of his arse cheeks glistening with sweat and saliva. And then Sherlock turned over to lie on his back and look at Victor. His eyes were half closed in near-exhaustion and his limbs lay limply on the bed, a marble figure starkly contrasted against the dark sheets.

'Come on, sit up. I want you to suck me.'

Sherlock raised himself on his elbows and then all the way up till he was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Victor got off the bed and took his clothes off. He crawled on all fours toward Sherlock and threw one leg over to straddle him. Holding on to the headboard, moved close to Sherlock on his knees with his hips level with Sherlock's face, holding his cock and pressing it down against Sherlock's lips, running it along the seam and nudging them apart with the tip.

'Suck.'

Sherlock pulled back to look at the thick cock and curled his fingers around it and opened his mouth to let it sit heavy on his extended tongue. His mouth still open, he looked up at Victor through his lashes and moved his tongue to tease the slit in a wet circle and then closed his lips around the swollen tip and pulled off in a filthy, noisy suck.

_Look at me, John. I have another man's cock in my mouth. Would it hurt you to know that?_

'Aaaah!' Victor groaned, his head lolling forward and his hips bucking against Sherlock. Sherlock opened his mouth wide and engulfed Victor's cock, taking it as deep down his throat as he could without gagging. Then he began to suck. Hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue around the shaft, he bobbed his head, smearing the flesh with Victor's pre-come and his own saliva, rubbing and licking and sucking hard.

'Fuck! You were made to suck cock, Sherlock. Aaaaah…aaahh!' he panted. His cock twitched in Sherlock's mouth and he grabbed his curls and pulled his mouth off with a loud pop.

'I'm close but I don't want to come like this. I'm going to fuck you, my sweet boy.'

_Come back, John. Don't let this happen. Please. Stop me. Stop him. Take me back._

He bent down to kiss Sherlock's neck and then pulled off to allow Sherlock to lower himself to the bed, flat on his back. Sherlock spread his legs and lifted his feet off the bed. Victor positioned himself between Sherlock's legs, clasping his knees and moving his legs to rest on his shoulders. He ripped open another condom and rolled it onto his throbbing cock. He smeared lube over his sheathed cock and held it at Sherlock's entrance, running it up and down his slicked cleft, playing with the sensitive entrance.

'Feel that?'

'Uuhhhhhhmmmm', Sherlock managed, incoherently, closing his eyes, shutting himself off to all stimuli but touch and sound.

He felt Victor push in. Just a bit. Just enough for the tip to breach the ring of muscle. He was plugged for a few moments and then the intrusive flesh pulled out. And then he was filled again, once more just the tip and a little bit more, but this time the slick flesh inside him moved in a circle, squelching and popping as it teased and stretched his lax hole. Sherlock shook and grasped at the sheets as he visualized Victor's cock slowly and tantalizingly ravaging his body and the maddening mix of wet friction and obscene sound felt good, so good but it shouldn't. It shouldn't feel this good. And then shame gave way to pleasure as he allowed himself to surrender to sensation.

_Use me, Victor._ _Abuse me. Defile me. John doesn't want me._

Victor pulled back out, the swollen tip flirting with Sherlock's rim until it clenched and released in a reflexive attempt to hold his cock inside. This went on for a few more moments until Sherlock's eyes flew open and he growled 'Just fuck me already!'

Victor flashed a triumphant grin and in one smooth, hard movement, he pushed fully until he was balls-deep inside Sherlock. He held there while Sherlock adjusted to his girth. And then he began to move. Strong hips moved in brutal snaps, stabbing into an abused hole between shivering thighs.

_Fuck you, John! Do you see what I'm allowing another man to do to me? You drove me to this. You drove me away! _

Victor held himself up on one hand and grasped Sherlock's hip with the other and raised his own hips, still slapping their groins together. Sherlock's hips were lifted off the bed as the weight of his body was borne by his shoulders and his legs pressed down on Victor's shoulders and crossed at the ankles on Victor's back as the man continued his persistent pounding of Sherlock's elevated arse. The change in angle brought Sherlock's prostate into focus and Victor's cock repeatedly rubbed against and knocked into that bundle of nerves until Sherlock trembled violently as his climax swept over him and thick, hot ropes of ejaculate spurted from his untouched cock to land on his stomach and chest. His eyes were squeezed shut and a single tear ran down his cheek and his mouth opened in a sob. And he cried out one word. A name. Over and over, like a prayer. John. John. John. John.

Victor's rhythm faltered but he climaxed weakly nonetheless, squeezing out an attenuated orgasm from an erection that was flagging with each passing second. He pulled out harshly, not caring for Sherlock's pained wince as his hips fell back on the bed.

'Well, I'm glad I could make you come while you thought of someone else. Fuck!' he cursed and got off the bed in a single, smooth motion. He padded into the bathroom to pull off and throw the condom. He cleaned himself up and stared at his reflection in the mirror, leaning on the basin. He thought heard the heartbreaking of a sob from the bedroom.

'Fuck. Fuck', he cursed and walked back into the bedroom.

Sherlock was turned away from him, curled up into himself as his thin shoulders shook. Victor shook his head and lay down on the bed, under the covers. He touched his shoulder.

'Hey, hey, Sherlock. What's going on? I think after what we've just done, you can tell me. Come on. Hey, turn around. Look at me.' He held his shoulder and pushed down to turn him around.

Sherlock's body fell limply on its back and he stared up at the ceiling. His eyeliner was running in long black streaks down his cheeks. Victor grabbed a few tissues from the night table and wiped away his tears and the streaks of kohl.

'So, Sherlock Holmes is in love. And he's got his heart broken. Hmm?'

'I'm not in love', Sherlock protested.

'You're in love, mate. I've always held that the name you call when you're coming is the person you love. And you're in love with a John. John who, may I ask?'

'Watson.'

'John Watson? _Doctor_ John Watson of the RAMC?'

'Yes.'

'Wow!'

'Is that so hard to believe?'

'I just didn't think you'd go for someone like John.'

'Fuck off.'

'Hey, you've slapped me, you've just insulted me by calling John's name while I'm fucking you _and_ I'm listening to your tale of woe. The least you could do is not ask me to fuck off. Yeah?'

'Sorry.'

'It's alright. So what's with John? Why aren't you in each other's arms swearing to love each other until the end of time? What are you doing with me?'

'He doesn't want me.'

'Sure he does.'

'No, he doesn't. He told me.'

'OK…but Bill and I could see that he felt something for you.'

'Really? When?'

'Just after your father's rescue. We met at Abdul's home, when you were unconscious. Murray and I had come to take Cav and Rahul to Kumaan. He wouldn't leave your side. The chap was unable to walk straight, he was so tired. We offered to ask for another doctor to relieve him, especially as he had been in Limaaz less than a week, but he wouldn't hear it. I'd wager that's love. Of course, we didn't say anything to anyone.'

'Loved. That was a long time back. He doesn't anymore. He told me…today.'

'Hey, you've got to give the guy space, OK? After what he's been through, he's going to need time to work through the stuff in his head.'

'What do you mean? What has he been through?'

'Well, if he hasn't told you, I don't know if I should. You should ask him.'

'Tell me what you officially know.'

'Didn't you wonder why he returned less than three years into his five-year tour? He's been invalided from the army. That's got to suck.'

'I didn't know…I didn't know…' Sherlock whispered, shaking his head as if trying to collate and classify this new information.

'So…if you knew he loved me, why did you come here tonight?' he asked Victor.

'I _suspected_ that _he_ loved you. He didn't speak of it and I didn't ask. I didn't know _you_ felt the same way. I'm not an arsehole, Sherlock. I want…ed you but I'd never interfere if I knew you loved someone else. Great, now I've got live with the guilt of fucking you while you're in love with someone else. Thanks a lot, mate.'

'I'm sorry. I really am.'

'It's OK', he laughed. 'Plenty of fish in the sea for handsome, young Captain Trevor, yeah? Anyway, _I_ won't die of a broken heart. _You_ need to worry about how you're going to get John back. He's worth fighting for.'

'He is…'

* * *

_#22. Slept with VT. Allowed him to fuck me. I'm a fucking slut. And pathetic. Called out J's name. Laughable. Like thousands of ordinary people, I want someone who doesn't want me. But is there something to what V said? Could J really just be going through something? I need to be with him. I want to be with him. I don't want him to go through anything alone. Why won't he open up to me? I need to know the truth. How do I get him to talk to me? I can't let him go. I just can't. Come back to me, John. Please.._

Sherlock headed to Harry's to speak to John. Harry opened the door.

'He's not here', she said, knowing exactly why Sherlock was there. 'And he's not coming back.'

'What do you mean? Where can I find him?'

'He doesn't want to be found.'

'That's bullshit. Where is he?'

'I'm not getting in the middle of this mess', she said as she started to shut the door but Sherlock put up his hand and pushed it open.

'Please. I don't know why he won't…why he doesn't want me anymore. Has he found someone else? Is it Mary?'

'No.'

'Then why?'

'He said you're brilliant. Can't you figure it out?'

'I don't read minds! A few months back, it felt like he was coming back to me. And then something changed. You heard what he said. He wants a wife, a family. Does he, really? Because I can't give him that!'

Harry sighed. 'You might as well come in. This is going to take some time', she stepped back to allow him to enter.

When they were seated in her living room, Harry spoke.

'He wants you, Sherlock. Only you. But he doesn't want to "drag you down" as he put it.'

'What does that even mean? How would he be dragging me down?'

'What do you really want with my brother? Are you playing with him?'

'What? No! Why would you think that?'

'John is going through a lot right now.'

'What is he going through? How can I do anything about it if I don't know what the _fuck_ he is going through? He won't talk to me!'

'Alright. I will tell you. He was shot in his shoulder trying to save a little girl in Huraayatin. He has tremors in his hand. Can't perform surgery anymore. He's been invalided from the RAMC. He limps. He's been diagnosed with PTSD and borderline depression. And he needs to work through all that. He's feeling like _shit_ right now, Sherlock. And he doesn't want anyone's pity.

'And then you come sweeping in like some catwalk model, all gorgeous and perfect and rich. And you chase him. Who's going to believe you'd want anything to do with John if you knew what he's like now? You didn't want him when he was three years younger and unhurt. Look at it from his point of view. He doesn't feel good enough anymore. Do you even understand what that's like? Only John can pull himself out of that. His therapist should be fired, in my opinion. She's done fuck-all for him. He needs to get back on his feet and feel useful.'

They both stared into their teacups for a long while.

'There you have it. So I'll ask you again. What do you really want with my brother, Sherlock? Just leave him alone!'

'Not a chance', Sherlock said, drawing himself up to his full height. 'Thank you, Harry. I have one last request. I need John's address.'

'Why? What do you intend to do?'

'I intend to win him back', he smiled at Harry and saw an answering smile of hope on her lips.

* * *

John had moved out of Harry's into a small, low-cost studio in a suboptimal district of London, the best he could afford on his Army pension, and had found locum work as a maternity-leave stand-in at St. Bart's hospital.

He returned from his shift one evening, mentally and physically drained, and was turning the key in the lock when a figure emerged behind him.

'Sh-Sherlock…' he stuttered. 'What are you doing here? How did you find me?' He instinctively moved his cane behind him.

'I asked Harry for your address.'

'So you've come to gloat? Yes, I can't afford Baker Street anymore on an Army pension.'

'Do you really think I'm that much of an arsehole, John? And I know you're hiding your cane from me.'

'I'm tired, Sherlock. Good night.' He shut the door in Sherlock's face. Each man, on either side of the door, was reminded of similar nights in Baker Street. Behind the door, John clutched his thigh, grimacing at the sudden arrow of pain that shot through it.

The next morning, Sherlock followed John from a distance and saw him enter St. Bart's.

Sherlock's innate affinity with society's misfits and marginalized segments stood him in good stead again. London offered him a network of enterprising homeless folks, young chaps who were invaluable in his consulting detective work and he commissioned Nigel, his most trusted courier, to deliver a single red rose to John at St. Bart's every day. Even on days when he did not have a shift.

John walked in at 9 a.m. for his shift at St. Bart's.

'Good morning, Michelle', he greeted the chirpy receptionist.

'Good morning, Dr. Watson!' she replied cheerfully and held out a rose for him. 'Looks like you have a secret admirer.'

'A rose? From whom?'

'I wish I could tell you', she said with an impish smile.

John shook his head, took the rose and headed to his office.

The next day, Michelle called out to him again.

'Good morning, Dr. Watson. Your secret admirer has sent you another rose today.'

John came back to work after two days.

'Good morning, Dr. Watson. You weren't here yesterday. So, a rose from yesterday and one for today. Someone really likes you!'

The next day, Michelle again greeted him with a loaded smile.

'Good morning, Dr. Watson.'

'Yes, yes, a rose for me. I get it. Could you hold the delivery person next time? I want to talk to them.'

The next day, Michelle hailed him again.

'Good morning, Dr. Watson. Here you go – a rose for you. And', she added with a twinkle in her eyes, 'the delivery boy is in Exam Room 1. Nigel Bailey.'

'How did you get him to stay?' John asked, intrigued.

'Oh, I told him he had a rash he needed to have examined', she said with a laugh. 'Be kind to him. He's terrified he's got something serious.'

'You're a crafty one, Michelle', he said with an appreciative smile.

John opened the door to Exam Room 1 and was faced with a young boy, around thirteen and obviously homeless. He was nervously running his fingers over the skin on his neck, looking for something.

'Good morning, Nigel. I'm Dr. Watson. How are you today?'

'Hello Dr. Watson. I'm not sure how I am. The lady at the front said I have a rash on my neck. I can't see it. And I don't feel anything. Nothing hurts or itches. Do I have something?'

'Let me take a look.'

John made a show of checking Nigel's neck. Then he smiled at the worried boy.

'Don't worry, Nigel. You don't have a rash. In fact, you're perfectly fine. The nice lady at the front, Michelle, only said that to make you stay back so that I could talk to you. Hmm…so you've been bringing me roses every day. Who's been sending them?'

'Oh, I can't tell you, Dr. Watson. He'd have my hide for it!'

'He? OK...ok. I understand. Now, I don't want to get you into trouble, but I can't think of anyone who'd want to give me flowers. Especially a man. Could you maybe describe him to me? That way you won't be telling me his name but I would like to know who likes me enough to send me a rose every day.'

'Uh...I...I don't know if I should.'

'OK, you describe him and I'll get you a pre-paid McDonald's card so you can buy yourself lunch for a month. Would you like that?'

'OK, yeah, yeah. I'd like that very much.'

'Go on then.'

'Uh...he's uh...tall. Dark hair, curly. Very thin. Very white. Doesn't talk much.'

'Doesn't smile much either? Gray eyes?'

'Shite! You know him?'

'I believe I do.'

'Oh no! Please don't tell him I told you! He's very good to us. We help him and he takes care of us. Buys us food and clothes. Pays us well for helping him.'

'I won't breathe a word. But I'd like you do to me a favour.'

'Uhm…what kind of favour, Dr. Watson?'

'I'd like you to _not_ deliver tomorrow's rose. And I don't want you to tell him until it's too late because I don't want him be able to ask any of your friends to drop it off instead.'

'Oh, I can't do that, sir! He'd be mad at me. He'd have to come down himself, then.'

'Exactly. I _want_ him to come down here.'

'Please, Dr. Watson!'

'Don't worry, Nigel. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise.'

'You promise?'

'I do. Absolutely nothing will happen to you. And he will continue to help you. I'll make sure of it. Alright?'

'Alright, Dr. Watson.'

'Good. That's good. Now let's go get you that McDonald's card, yeah?'

The next day, John went an hour early to the hospital and waited for Sherlock to show up. Exactly fifteen minutes before John's scheduled arrival time, Sherlock walked up to Michelle and held out a rose. He looked sullen and annoyed.

'For me?' she batted her eyes at him. 'Oh thank you! This is so wonderful. You're the most handsome man to ever give me a rose.'

'I'm sorry. It's…uh…it's not for you', Sherlock stammered. He was flustered. 'This is for Dr. Watson.'

'Oh hon, it's alright. I was just teasing!' Michelle smiled while, unseen by Sherlock, her hands deftly buzzed John's phone number and a few seconds later, John was standing behind Sherlock.

'Well, Dr. Watson is right here. Why not give him the rose yourself?'

'Hello Sherlock.'

Sherlock spun around and was looking into John's smiling eyes. He whipped his arm around to hide the rose behind his back but, in his enthusiasm, swung it so far back that the rose peeked out from behind him on the other side.

'John! Good morning', he said, clearing his throat. 'How are you?'

'I'm well. And how are you, Sherlock? You look great. What brings you to St. Barts?'

'Nothing much...I was in the area.'

'A rose? Who's the lucky recipient?'

'It's for you, Dr. Watson!' Michelle chimed in.

'No, it's not!' Sherlock was blushing furiously. 'Ms...' he paused to read her name tag. 'Michelle, please, this does not concern you.'

'It's not for me, then?' John asked innocently.

'No, it's for Dr...', Sherlock's eyes quickly scanned the names on the board on the wall. 'It's for Dr. Walton.'

'Dr. Ruth Walton. Is she a relative? An aunt, perhaps?'

'No...'

'Sherlock...', John decided to put Sherlock out of his misery. 'I spoke to Nigel yesterday. He's been bringing me your roses every day.'

'He should be clipped around the ear. I told him Walton, not Watson.'

'Did you really?'

'No.'

'OK, let's go into my office.'

'I'll have your patients wait, Dr. Walton. Oops, I mean Dr. Watson. Take all the time you need!' Michelle teased.

'_Thank you,_ Michelle!' John said in mock exasperation while walking away to his office, followed loyally by Sherlock.

_He's limping but isn't using a cane. _

When they were behind closed doors, John spoke.

'Alright then, you're bringing me roses. Why?'

'Still missing the obvious, I see. I'm courting you.' He clasped John's wrist in the long fingers of one hand.

When John didn't respond, Sherlock tried to clarify.

'I want you back. I want you to be with me.'

'You know I can't do that, Sherlock.'

'Why, John? Why don't you want to be with me? Do you really not like me anymore?' Sherlock sounded so broken and so vulnerable that John's defences crumbled. Sherlock dropped his hand and John grasped the cane that was leaning against the examination table.

'Sherlock…It's not you. It was never you. It's _my_ problem. It's in _my_ head.'

'What is it that's so bad? Why can't we get through it together?'

'Stop this. Why are you still coming after me?'

'Because I want to be with you! You really ask the most idiotic questions, John. But I am willing to put up with it if it means you'll be with me.'

John looked up at him and shook his head.

'I'll just drag you down.'

'What? What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?'

'I am not the man who left London two years ago. I am damaged goods, Sherlock. And you shouldn't have to be with damaged goods.'

'I'm afraid I don't understand your analogy. What goods are we talking about here, John?'

John held up his cane in explanation.

'Look, I'm not given to self-pity. This is a very logical, _medical_ assessment of my situation. So you need to understand that. Yeah?'

'If you're going to tell me that you were shot in the shoulder, you've been invalided from the Army, you have PTSD, you limp, you've been diagnosed with borderline depression and you have a useless therapist, well…Harry's told me all that.'

'Harry should know when to keep her mouth shut.'

'You can't be a surgeon anymore. So what? You are still a doctor. Your limp is clearly psychosomatic. In fact, you haven't used a cane all week. Don't look at me like that – Nigel was watching you. You didn't have it just now at Reception but you reached for it as soon as we entered the room. And you're using it now because you're speaking to me and you're stressed. You have dark circles under your eyes and your skin is sallow so you're not sleeping well because the anti-anxiety pills, which your therapist has no doubt prescribed, are ineffectual and you very likely suffer from nightmares because of the PTSD. You were calm and self-assured, arms at your side, your stance open, at Reception because you felt in control and _I_ was taken unawares by your sudden appearance. Now that we are alone, the balance of power has shifted. You feel beset. Your arms are folded over your chest because you feel vulnerable. You see me as an aggressor with the power to hurt you. Your heart is racing - I took your pulse just now. You keep licking your lips and your eyes are darting around the room, looking everywhere but at me. You're nervous. Because we both know that you _do_ want something with me but irrationally and erroneously fear that all of this makes a difference to me. What else should I know that you think will influence how I feel about you?'

'Amazing. Extraordinary. Those were the facts. I have nothing to add. You're amazing, really. Look, Sherlock… I have no idea how long it will be before I get better or even _if_ I'll get better. But I _do_ know I won't be able to keep up with you. It may start well – we'll be hopeful that I'll get better and soon, but if it takes longer than we'd like, I can see it chipping away at your patience. I wouldn't want you to resent me for holding you back and I'd hate myself for being…inadequate. I'm not willing to take that risk. If circumstances were different, we may have had a chance. Not now.'

Sherlock remained silent.

'Sherlock…You are _vibrant_ and _alive_. Trying to be in step with you is like trying to bottle lightning. You're brilliant and vital - you...you are just so _extraordinary _and you deserve so much more than I can offer. I wasn't good enough when I was whole. And we are simply not in the same league now.'

'Remarkable, John!' Sherlock laughed but his voice was hard and his face unsmiling. 'That was a better display of your literary prowess than your medical acuity! Very evocative and poignant. It's amazing how well you think you know me. And you are absolutely wrong. Oh, do explain to me how exactly you deduced that you weren't good enough for me when you were whole. Harry also mentioned that. Please. I'm very interested to understand your reasoning.'

'Sherlock...you have never said the words...It's been two years and _not once_ have you said them. Am I wrong in thinking that if I _were_ good enough, you would have by now?'

'Brilliant, John! You have out-deduced me. Your unassailable logic dictates that if something does not happen as you expect it should, it must mean something is lacking in you. You really must teach a course in idiotic assumptions. You're a past master at it.'

'That's great. Keep insulting me and expect me to believe that you want to be with me.'

'Oh, stop it, John! Have you ever considered that I might have been dealing with my own demons? And that I still am? And that my reluctance to express sentiment has nothing to do with you? I kissed you, only you John, I kissed you and came back again and again – didn't that tell you anything? You choose to pick _one_ little socially-sanctioned measure of sentiment and make that the lynchpin of your assessment of us and of me and my feelings for you. How many people say those words indiscriminately and don't mean them? They are just _words_, John! How ordinary of you to allow something this important hinge on three little words!'

'Well, yes! I am ordinary! I get it! Why don't you get together with someone like Victor Trevor? He's _extra_ordinary! SAS, handsome, strong, smart. Everything you'd want in a lover, Sherlock. He's extraordinary, just like you. And he wants you.'

'I tried, alright?' Sherlock said, very softly.

'Just leave _less-than_-ordinary John Watson the _fuck_ alone.' And then John stopped when he realized what Sherlock had just said. 'What?'

'I slept with Victor.'

'You did? When?' John's voice faltered and he shrank back onto the examination table. 'No, I really don't want to know. There's nothing to say now, is there?'

'There is.'

'No there isn't. Please, just go!'

'Listen to me, John! I slept with him after you told me you didn't love me anymore and kicked me out of your sister's house. I was at one of the lowest points of my life and sleeping with Victor made me feel wanted. But the cruel irony of it was that I cried out your name when I came! I can't get you out of my mind. Don't you see?'

'No I don't. Please, Sherlock, just leave me be. I will never get over you if you don't leave me alone. Please. Please. You don't want me.'

'No.'

'What do you mean "no"?'

'No. I will not leave you alone. This is getting tiresome, John. Do _not_ presume to know what I want. If you do not know, let me tell you. I want you. I want you, John Watson, lately of the RAMC, to move to 221B and live with me for one year.'

'I won't and even if I wanted to, I cannot.'

'Why not?'

'I cannot afford the rent. My pension isn't high enough and I have yet to find a stable job.'

Sherlock laughed, harsh and incredulous.

'Have I _asked_ you for money? I'm not asking you be my fucking _flatmate_! I want you there as my...partner. And if it makes you feel better, give me whatever you pay for your horrendous studio now. I don't care about money.'

'I'm not going to be your charity case! I don't need Sherlock Holmes to be a white knight running to rescue poor, broken John and put a roof over his head!'

'Oh fuck, John! This is not fucking charity! When will you understand what I am asking of you?' Sherlock sounded exasperated. 'I am asking for one year of your life to spend with me. Give me as much or as little as you want. And I promise to give you as much or as little as you want from me. One year. And then you decide if you want me or you want to leave. I will not stop you then. But I will not let you go this easily, John. Think about it. You don't have to answer me right away. Christmas is a week from today. You can let me know on Christmas. I will be waiting. If I don't hear from you, I'll know you don't want me and you'll never hear from me again. Goodbye John.'

* * *

Sherlock and John didn't communicate in any way until Christmas. A single rose was delivered to St. Bart's every day.

Christmas arrived and passed. John did not contact Sherlock. The roses stopped.

He was walking home on New Year's Eve when he noticed a long, dark car driving slowly alongside him. He stopped and looked at it. The car also stopped and the passenger door was pushed open. He ducked down to peer inside.

'Please get in, Dr. Watson.'

'You! He called you his archenemy!'

'Sherlock's penchant for hyperbole seems undiminished. I am sure you know by now that I'm his brother, Dr. Watson. Mycroft Holmes. Now, please get in.'

John acquiesced and the car drove off.

'We spoke on the phone when Sherlock was in Rishayat. You saved my brother. And for that I thank you.'

'It was nothing. Anyone would have done that. We were, after all, neighbours.'

'False humility and a denial of your feelings do not become you, Dr. Watson. We both know Sherlock is more than just a neighbour to you.'

'Were you watching us?'

'I was watching my brother. I worry about him. Constantly. He's a very intense person, Dr. Watson. Easily broken in spite of his ostensibly hard exterior. He has grown inordinately fond of you. And you have rejected him. May I ask why?'

'My personal…circumstances have changed.'

Mycroft sighed.

'I know about that. And I know Sherlock almost as well as he knows himself. He doesn't know how to deal his feelings. There is no logic, no science to what the heart feels. And Sherlock had convinced himself that he didn't have a heart after Liam betrayed him. I caught him trying to shoot himself up with cocaine. It was not easy wrenching that syringe from him. He has a very addictive personality and I prefer not to think of where he might be now had he had that first taste.

'He was shattered, Dr. Watson. His trust was broken. I tried to pick up the pieces by keeping his mind engaged with small investigations. And then he met you. You changed something in him. I could see that he trusted again. He was calm. Mature, even. And you did in a few weeks what I couldn't do in two years. The Sherlock who went to Kumaan was not the same Sherlock who languished after Liam left him.'

'You give me too much credit, Mr. Holmes.'

'You are the only man, the only _person_, with whom he has made an effort to connect. He has been writing to you for a few years now, hasn't he? How many people do you think have merited Sherlock Holmes' attention to that extent? Exactly one, Dr. Watson. You. He is very, very fond of you, notwithstanding the change in your personal _circumstances_, as you put it. And I know he is important to you.'

John was silent.

' …'

'He's not _important_ to me, Mr. Holmes.'

'Isn't he?'

'No. He is _everything_ to me. I love him. And I've loved him since that first day I saw him in the lift.'

'In that case, I must ask you what you intend to do with my brother, Dr. Watson.'

John looked out at London passing them by.

'I intend to show him that I love him, as much as he'll let me. He detests those words, you know.'

'He loved Liam, or thought he did, and Liam cheated on him and humiliated him in public. Do you blame him for being bitter?'

'No...no. I do understand. What happened to Liam?'

'Oh, he was charged, factually of course, with peddling drugs, rusticated from University and then expelled.'

'Did you have something to do with it?'

'Now, why would you think that?' Mycroft said with a loaded smile.

'My brother needs you, Dr. Watson.'

'I think you might as well call me John.'

'In that case, I'm Mycroft. I wish you the best, John. Sherlock is challenging but he's worth it. He really is very, very special. I understand you were to communicate your decision to him on Christmas Day? I should warn you that he can be downright petulant and terribly annoying when he doesn't get what he wants. Christmas dinner was disastrous and _not_ an experience our family wishes to repeat.

'Sherlock is wont to withdraw from the world when in the grip of melancholy and he hasn't emerged from 221B Baker Street for almost a week now. It is his refuge. A hermitage, really. He hasn't been eating. He doesn't sleep much anyway. I am…_concerned_ for my brother.'

'Is it a Holmes trait to shy away from any declarations of love?' John asked with an understanding smile.

'I am not sure I know what you mean.'

'You obviously love him. But you won't say it.'

'I would never use a word as quotidian as love to describe my sentiment for my brother, John. Now, Sherlock's friends…well, I use the term _friends_ loosely…Toby and Simon from Uni have taken him clubbing with them. They must have been extremely convincing to get him out of the flat because Sherlock is, at this very moment, nursing his broken heart by drinking his sorrows away and dancing alone in a gay club surrounded by libidinous men. It would behoove you to convey your reconsidered decision to him posthaste, before potential suitors begin to make a move on him. I wish you well. And I will be watching.'

'Yes, I know', John said with a resigned sigh. 'You worry about him. Constantly.'

The car pulled up in front of the Midnight Sun club. John entered and was at once buffeted by the loud music and bright strobe lights. He squinted, looking for Sherlock and then his eyes stopped on a writhing figure in dark clothes at the centre of the dance floor.

Duran Duran's Lava Lamp was playing and Sherlock swayed to it, eyes closed, arms raised above his head, the purple shirt under his dark jacket open all the way, tantalizingly exposing his flat and glistening torso as his hips alternately swiveled and jerked in rhythm, filthy and erotic, the muscles of his abdomen bunching and rolling under his thin skin with every movement. He seemed to be unaware of the hungry eyes around him until a tall man began to grind up against him. His eyes still closed, he instinctively moved closer to the other man whose arms moved to encircle his waist. Sherlock was pulled against the other man and his eyes flew open when he felt a wet mouth close on his nipple.

'What the fuck!' he hissed. He tried to push the man away.

'Oh, come on! I can make you feel good, babe', the other man purred, lowering his head again to Sherlock's chest.

'Fuuccckk!' the man cursed and jerked away from Sherlock when his wrist was twisted in the vice-like grip of a livid John Watson.

'Back off, mate', John growled. 'He's not interested.'

'Who the fuck are you?'

'That's what I'm here to find out. Now fuck off', John snapped. 'Come on, Sherlock.'

'John? Jaaawn…you're here. Why?' Sherlock blinked a few times as if unable to believe it was John standing before him. Or he may have been drunk.

'I'm here for you, you berk. What are you doing?'

'You didn't call or text. You were supposed to tell me on Christmas. You didn't. That meant you didn't want me.'

'Yeah…I'm…I'm sorry about not telling you on Christmas. Well, I'm here now, aren't I? I want that year, Sherlock.'

'You do?'

'O...Only if you want it too. If you've changed your mind, I understand. I really do...'

'Shut up. Let's go home.'

'Let's get you dressed first', he mumbled, buttoning up Sherlock's shirt as the taller man stood obediently, watching John take care of him. 'You have no right parading your body like this, you know. That chap meant business.'

'But you came. You came for me.'

'You're drunk.'

'On you.'

'Sherlock, seriously! You're sappy when you're drunk. Let's get you back home.'

'Home. You said home.'

'Your home, yes.'

'And yours. For a year or as long as you want after that.'

'Sherlock...I'm...'

'You don't need to say anything, John. We'll figure it out. Together. I'm with you. You've come back to me.'


	7. I'm ready

Chapter Summary: Fluff, domesticity and lovemaking (lots of it :)) to make up for all the trouble they went through.

* * *

**I'm ready**

I'm ready – Bryan Adams

_I'd like to see you, thought I'd let you know_

_I wanna be with you every day_

_Cause I've got a feeling that's beginning to grow_

_And there's only one thing I can say_

_I'm ready - to love you_

_I'm ready - to hold you_

_I'm ready - I'm ready_

_Ready as I'm gonna be_

John threw a quick glance at the closed door to 221A and then, when Sherlock and he stepped into 221B Baker Street, he stopped and closed his eyes as a tidal wave of memories washed over him. The sight of the armchair by the window transported him back to the first time he had knocked on Sherlock door and the heady night that had followed. The night that changed his life and, apparently, Sherlock's as well. He turned his head to look up at his…what was Sherlock to him? Not his friend or lover or neighbour. Not his stranger anymore. Flatmate? He considered the two of them, playing with their names in his head. Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. Two halves of a whole. It sounded complete. It sounded right. But it was premature to think like that.

'This is your home now', Sherlock said in a quiet voice that told John he understood what he was thinking.

John walked into the living room, stopping at each piece of furniture he recalled, running his fingers over Sherlock's music system, his armchair, his bookshelf, his microscope, his journals and notebooks and scratchpads, a book with tattoo patterns…He held up the book questioningly.

'You need to pick one. You didn't respond to the photograph I sent you.'

John smiled. He remembered. And he still had that photo on his laptop.

'There's a second bedroom across from mine. That'll be your room. It's slightly smaller.'

'I'm sure it's bigger than my studio', John laughed. 'Thank you.'

'This is your home for the next year or as long as you want it to be. Treat it as such. Treat me as such.'

John bit the insides of his cheeks.

'Thank you, Sherlock. Happy New Year.'

'Happy New Year, John.'

He opened the door to the bedroom, _his_ bedroom, now. It was lovely. The lush carpet damped his heavy footfalls as he limped across to the bed. A mattress of just the right firmness welcomed him under clean, light blue sheets. His favourite colour. He heard a knock on the door and turned around to see Sherlock holding out a change of clothes.

'You can use my pyjamas and t-shirt tonight. We'll move your things tomorrow. Is the room satisfactory?'

'It's great. It's perfect. Thank you.'

'You seem to think I am doing you a favour. I'm not. This is a completely selfish act. You can stop thanking me.'

'I'll try. Good night, Sherlock.'

'Good night, John.'

* * *

The next morning, they took a taxi to John's studio and Sherlock helped him pack. His eyes stopped on a small cardboard box that had fallen open and he reached inside to pull out a wad of folded paper - the photographs they had taken at the photo booth on that last day they had spent together. John saw him staring at them.

'Yes, I'm a sentimental fool. Does it bother you that I still have it?'

'Would it bother _you_ to know I still have my copy?'

'You do?' John asked and Sherlock had just begun to roll his eyes when he quickly added 'I mean, no, it doesn't.'

'In that case, it doesn't bother me either.'

'Good…that's good.'

John didn't have too many possessions apart from clothes and books. He had given away all his CDs and records and sold his motorcycle, music system and furniture from 221A to students from Uni when he was deployed to Limaaz. This was a furnished studio and he was packed within a couple of hours. Sherlock helped him carry the four small cardboard boxes and two suitcases down to the street and load them into a taxi.

By late evening, John had unpacked and settled into Sherlock's guest bedroom in 221B. He sat alone in the room and breathed in the air around him, registering the contrasting and yet oddly complementary smells of tobacco, lavender, hydrochloric acid and vanilla. Vaguely familiar and yet new.

It was Sunday. They ate takeaway Thai dinner seated at opposite ends of Sherlock's narrow sofa, watching an episode of Doctor Who. Sherlock had purchased the entire collection of seasons with David Tennant. John knew it was for him; Sherlock had mercilessly poked fun at the series when they had last watched it.

On Monday, John made pasta for dinner and placed a cushion between his hip and the armrest and leaned on it, away from Sherlock but his hips had moved a little closer to the middle of the sofa.

On Tuesday, Sherlock mirrored John, leaning against a cushion between him and the armrest on his side of the sofa. He noted that, three days in, he had begun to refer to it as John's side and his side of the sofa. He reached for the TV remote and his hand touched John's as it rested on the sofa between them. Their eyes met. He held his hand on John's and sought permission with his gaze; when he saw indecision in the blue eyes, he moved his hand away.

On Wednesday, Sherlock tucked his legs under him on the sofa, his torso twisted to face forwards as his feet pressed into the cushion against his armrest. His long legs were bent and his knees stretched out beyond the middle of the narrow sofa onto John's half, his body automatically leaning a little towards the middle.

On Thursday, John mirrored Sherlock, pulling his legs up so that his knees stretched out almost to the middle of the sofa as his feet pressed against into the cushion against his armrest. The TV remote was buried under their knees. Their knees and shoulders were almost touching.

On Friday, Sherlock lay supine on the sofa, his feet on John' armrest. John arrived with a book but finding his seat occupied by long legs, sat on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock rose, grabbed his cushion and turned his body around. He placed his cushion against John's armrest so that he could rest his head on it, behind John's head, his feet now lying against the armrest on his side of the sofa. John noticed the change in position but continued to read in silence. A minute later, he felt long fingers softly run through his hair, down the curve of his head to the back of his neck. His eyes closed as his body came alive.

'What are you doing, Sherlock?'

'I'm touching you, John. I want to touch you. Too soon?'

John thought for a moment and said 'Yes.'

Sherlock pulled his hand back, rose from the sofa and retired to his bedroom. John sighed.

On Saturday, they sat on their respective sides of the sofa, the cushions between them, in the middle.

On Sunday, John lay supine on the sofa, his feet on Sherlock's armrest. Sherlock sat on the floor at his feet, leaning against the sofa seat. John grabbed his cushion and turned his body around to rest his head on Sherlock's side of the sofa. He slowly ran his fingers through the back of Sherlock's thick curls and then up the curve of his head to his crown, his fingers lightly scratching his scalp.

'What are you doing, John?'

'I'm touching you, Sherlock. I want to touch you. Too soon?'

'No', Sherlock answered immediately and then his eyes closed and his mouth opened in a silent gasp when he felt soft lips press against the nape of his neck, warm and dry and a nose nuzzle his curls.

He turned around to face John, sitting on his haunches.

'I want to kiss you. May I?' he asked.

John's hand reached out to stroke his cheek and then curl around his neck, pulling him forward. Sherlock willingly leaned into John's space and then their lips were touching. Shy, innocent and reassuring. Lips closed. No mouth, no tongue. Just the mending of a broken bond with a cautious press of lips, John unsure of how far he should go, Sherlock unsure of how far he would be allowed to go. And then John pulled away.

'I should go to bed. I have an early shift tomorrow.'

'Good night, John.'

'Good night, Sherlock.'

* * *

It was 2 a.m. and Sherlock was reading a scientific journal when he was startled by unsettled sounds from John's room. John seemed to be shouting out to someone to get out of the way and run away. And then a scream told Sherlock that the person he was trying to save didn't make it. He rushed into John's bedroom and without thinking, got under the covers and gathered John into his arms. The sleeping man was shaking and covered in sweat.

'John...John...it's just a nightmare. Wake up. You're alright. John...'

He shook him lightly to wake him up.

John thrashed his arms about, one of his palms landing hard on Sherlock's cheek as he attempted to flee an imaginary captor and then his eyes suddenly opened as he regained partial consciousness and the nightmare ended.

'Shrrlock?' he slurred. 'What happened? Oh, oh God! Did I hurt you?' he gasped, looking at the angry pink blotch on Sherlock's pale cheek.

'Sshhh...It's alright. You're alright. You didn't hurt me. Sshhh...'

'S..sorry...it was a nightmare.'

'It's ok…it's ok…Sleep now. I'm here. It's alright. Go to sleep. I'm here.'

Sherlock tightened his hold on John and pulled him into his chest. He felt John relax into his embrace and his panting breath slowed to warm huffs against Sherlock's chest. He stayed in John's bed that night and surprised himself by also falling asleep. When John awoke, Sherlock had left.

That evening, after John had gone to bed, Sherlock played softly on his violin. When he stopped and turned around, John was lying on the sofa, obviously lulled into a deep, calm sleep by the dulcet tones from Sherlock's strings. He brought John's duvet from his bedroom and covered him with it. He played every night after that and John left the door to his bedroom open. John's nightmares reduced in intensity and frequency and on the few nights that Sherlock heard John thrashing in his bed, he went in and slept under the covers, gathering John into his arms until they both relaxed into each other's warmth and fell into a deep, restful sleep.

One evening, Sherlock was playing his violin and heard John shuffle into the living room but didn't turn around and didn't stop playing. He heard John settle on the sofa and when his song finished ten minutes later, he turned around and his expression froze with the shock of witnessing the naked need in John's unguarded eyes, wordlessly confessing his desire to Sherlock. John blinked and quickly looked away, worried that he had betrayed too much of his own intentions. He got up to leave the room.

'Don't go.'

'I should…'

Sherlock walked up to the sofa and pushed John back onto it and sat on the floor at his feet, pressing his fingers to John's chin to turn his face to look at him.

'I want to have sex with you, John. Tonight. I want to suck you. Will you let me?'

'Sherlock…I've been here a little over a month…Isn't it too soon?'

'You've been in my thoughts for nearly four years. We've slept with each other before. _Is_ it too soon?'

'We haven't even kissed properly.'

'So let's kiss properly.'

John was silent.

'Do you not want this?'

'Oh god, I want this.'

'Then I don't see a problem except your convoluted and utterly flawed reasoning. Stop thinking, John.'

John looked into Sherlock's eyes, still uncertain of how far he wanted to go but his lover saw through his inner conflict.

'Let me touch you, John. I'm _burning_ for you. Don't you see? Please…' he rasped with an edge of desperation.

'Here?' John asked.

'Here, in your bedroom or in mine. Wherever you want it.'

Warm hands pushed John's knees apart and Sherlock moved in between his legs, like he belonged there. He ran his palms up and down John's thighs and calves, squeezing and lightly scratching, closing his eyes as he accessed his Mind Palace and his memories of John's legs, updating his records to note the bonier kneecaps and more pronounced musculature. Pushing John's t-shirt up, he ghosted his hand over the flat stomach, feeling it shiver when he pressed his lips to the soft blond hair arrowing down to his navel and he dipped a lazy finger into it and then drew his hand down to the waistband of his pyjamas. John looked down at hooded gray eyes as a long, pale finger provocatively twirled one end of his pyjama drawstring around itself and tugged once to unravel the knot, the soft cotton falling loosely onto John's lap, held up only by his erect cock. His breath hitched when the ghost of a smile passed over that beautiful face looking up at him covetously as the fingers of the other hand unhurriedly pulled at his pyjamas, watching the fabric glide over his erection, revealing it in increments until it sat all the way down below his balls.

John could see Sherlock scientifically studying his cock, comparing it with his memory of it and adjusting his archives. And then Sherlock's mind shut down and his senses took over and he licked his lips as his greedy eyes feasted on the sight of the throbbing shaft that rose from a thatch of dark blond hair and he dug his fingers into John's thigh.

'Oh god, John. Oh god! Please let me…' Sherlock panted and his head fell forward and dropped soft, warm kisses along the seam where John's groin met his legs, feeling his lover's thighs shudder around him, warm, safe, familiar and looked up to see the column of John's neck stretch as his head fell back onto the sofa. His mouth covered John's tip and he began to suck and kiss the swollen flesh, licking into the slit, playing with the velvety skin and smearing the pre-come over the top with his tongue and then, in one smooth move, he dipped his head to swallow all of John's length.

'Sherlock…oh god, baby!' John cried, his head rolling about wantonly on the sofa as he felt his entire cock engulfed in Sherlock's sultry, wet mouth, tormented by those beautiful lips that he remembered so well, that were sucking around the tip and then dipping down again all the way to his root, bobbing around his hot, twitching flesh while those silky cheeks hollowed and released to pull hard on his cock and relax and pull again and relax in a maddeningly cadenced pattern.

'I missed you, baby, I missed you!' he moaned. His limbs fell open limply and he surrendered to Sherlock's voracious attentions, an impending explosion coiled in his belly, threatening to erupt with every brazen lick and suck and scrape of teeth on his turgid flesh.

Sherlock caressed John's balls boldly and curiously, feeling a pang of satisfaction as John's body shuddered ravenously above him; his balls were tightening and pulling up and he realized John was close when he felt a hand in his curls, gently tugging his head back. When he raised his eyes, he drowned in euphoric blue irises looking at him incredulously, at his mouth that still was obscenely stretched around his cock, and he reached up, covered John's hand with his and pressed down on his head. John understood and bit his lip as he buried his hand in Sherlock's hair, pulling and pushing Sherlock's head, taking his pleasure in that sinful mouth, jerking his hips in shallow thrusts into that sweltering cavern.

A distant part of his mind noted that Sherlock's left hand was no longer on his thigh and that his body was trembling in a fast, controlled rhythm. A few moments later, Sherlock's shoulders jerked and John heard a soft, squishing sound and Sherlock's mouth stilled around John's cock as he groaned, long and deep.

_Oh!_

John's eyes closed and he lost himself to the hum entering him through his cock and vibrating through his body and the fevered breath that huffed around his shaft and he tumbled over the edge as he came. Hard. His release spiraled out of his convulsing body, his twitching cock squirting his come into Sherlock's waiting mouth that lapped up every drop, hard at first and then gentling down to a careful, tender pull on his sensitive flesh.

The intense gratification coursing through John's body slowly abated into sensitive aftershocks that flared with unexpected twinges of delight brought on by Sherlock's slowing lips and finally, when his cock had softened, Sherlock pulled off and buried his head in his thigh. His cheek pressed into the soft hairs on the delicate skin on the inside of John's hot thigh as they both panted in mutual pleasure, Sherlock from knowing he had devastated John and John from receiving a mind-melting blow-job from the man he loved.

Sherlock pulled his hand from his pyjamas and took off his t-shirt with his right hand to wipe his own come off his fingers and John stared, like a man bewitched, at the pale body that he had loved and almost lost. Slowly, very slowly, their breathing calmed; Sherlock raised his head to look at John and he was overwhelmed by the affection he saw in John's eyes. Lifting himself onto his knees, he leaned forward to capture John's lips in a tender kiss.

John's tongue licked at the seam of Sherlock's lips, pushing them apart to reach into his mouth and taste himself. With a moan, Sherlock allowed his mouth to fall open against John's and within seconds, they were caught in a frenzied, violent kiss and the years spent aching for each other fell away as they licked and sucked and bit, sharing breath and saliva and kisses and touches until John didn't know where he ended and Sherlock began, lost in the rapture of his lover's mouth on his, his senses drunk on everything that was Sherlock – his breath, his heat, his pulse, his skin, his voice, his scent, so uniquely Sherlock.

He pulled away.

'Thank you, baby', he husked.

'Selfish act, remember?' his lover smiled.

'Yeah…but I wanted to suck you, too.'

'And god! I _want_ you to', Sherlock assured him, tenderly pushing a blond lock off his forehead. 'But it doesn't have to be tonight. I'm not going anywhere, John and I'm not letting you go. We have time.'

* * *

Sherlock began to introduce John to his circle of associates and acquaintances. He was always introduced as 'Dr. John Watson, my partner.'

They had dinner once a month at Angelo's, a fine Italian restaurant whose eponymous owner loved Sherlock for having cleared his name (a bit) and wouldn't charge them for their meal.

'Sherlock! How nice to see you again!' Angelo beamed. 'Anything you want on the menu – I'll make it myself. No charge, for you and your date.'

Sherlock started to say 'He's not my…' and then shrugged. 'Thank you.'

John looked up at him shyly.

'Am I your date?'

'I suppose, inasmuch as that prosaic term describes our current situation.'

'I'm your date', John murmured, a small smile of unabashed happiness lighting up his face. Sherlock's heart tripped and he looked away.

John was formally introduced to Mycroft and Sherlock saw them share a familiar smile hinting at an association that predated this introduction. Sherlock was not pleased.

'Paws off, Mycroft', he growled.

'Oh come now, brother. You must learn to share', Mycroft teased.

John shook his head in resignation. _Siblings._ But he understood. After all, he had a sister.

Molly, Toby, Billy and Simon were thrilled to meet the man who had saved their eccentric leader. They regaled John with tales of Sherlock, focusing on embarrassing details of his exploits at Uni until Sherlock shut them up with an icy stare. Molly seemed flustered around John, aware of the relationship between Sherlock and him. And John was uneasy about the amount of attention she nonetheless lavished on Sherlock and indiscreetly called him to his side for no apparent reason whenever he saw them beginning what could be a long dialogue. No doubt, Sherlock had clearly communicated his disinterest to Molly and no doubt their discussions were about computers and science and technology but John preferred that they minimized their interaction in his presence.

John met Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, a silver-haired, handsome devil. Sherlock detected an instant chemistry between John and the DI, an easy and unaffected camaraderie after just ten minutes of being introduced. He had never seen John connect with anyone else that quickly and it perturbed him to think that John might not need him after all. He indiscreetly called John to his side for no apparent reason whenever he saw the two men begin what could be a long and affable conversation.

John also met Sergeant Sally Donovan and Chief of Forensics Anderson and struggled to suppress a giggle when he thought back to Sherlock's email about his deodorant and her scuffed knees. They were not amused.

'So, you've got no friends, I suppose, given you're hanging around the freak now.'

'I suppose it's a matter of perspective, yeah? Oh, Sergeant Donovan? Is Anderson's wife out of town again?' John retorted with a laugh.

* * *

They celebrated Sherlock's twenty-fifth birthday by recreating the last day they had spent together in London before Sherlock disappeared, when he was still John's stranger. Their photographs this time were somehow deeper and in the pictures where they looked at each other, their eyes were more mature, communicating more than just the infatuation between two attractive young men.

They returned to 221B in the late evening and as soon as the door was shut behind them, John threw his arms around Sherlock and brought his head down for a bruising kiss.

'I want to suck you, baby', he growled against his lips.

'John…'

'I _need_ to. Please. Tonight', John's voice was firm and then his control shattered as torrid need overcame him. 'God, I've waited all these years – I never thought I'd have a second chance. Let me, baby, please!' as he pulled Sherlock onto the sofa and lowered himself onto the floor between Sherlock's legs, wincing a bit as he felt a stab of pain in his thigh.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock immediately grabbed John by his shoulders.

'I'm fine', John hissed through gritted teeth. 'Now help me by taking your pants off and leaning back.'

Sherlock toed his shoes off and stepped out of his trousers and boxers, kicking them aside, and sank down into the sofa while John sat back on his haunches drinking in the decadent sight of his lover, his torso still fully clothed in a silken black shirt under a dark jacket while the rest of his beautiful body lay naked for John to feast on – slim hips from which a glorious erection proudly jutted up at John, long, lean legs and sinewy thighs spread apart for John's viewing pleasure with feet still covered in dark socks, giving him an absolutely filthy look. John's mouth watered and his tongue made an appearance, slowly licking his lower lip as his mind stumbled on itself, unable to decide what he wanted to do to his lover.

'I see you missed me…', Sherlock smirked.

'Sherlock…baby. Look at you', he fell forward and breathed against his lover's long and thick erection, rubbing his cheeks up and down his length and then turning his face to run his open mouth in a wet stripe up one side, swirling tongue laving the hot flesh, circling the tip and then run down the other side till his entire cock was wet with John's spit and his own pre-come. And then John began to suck hard. Hungrily, desperately.

Above him, Sherlock's torso arched away from the sofa's back rest as his head fell back, his mouth open in a silent cry as he recognized his lover's adoration in every suck and every lick, every caress of his lover's mouth designed to show him what he wouldn't allow John to tell him. His fingers ran gently through John's soft hair as his head moved between his legs, cocooning Sherlock's hot flesh in his loving mouth. Sherlock knew he was close and hooked his finger under John's chin to lift his face up. John pulled off and looked up at Sherlock. His eyes darkened when Sherlock's fingers curled around his cock and stroked himself to completion, his gaze holding John's through heavy lidded eyes.

Then John saw what he thought must be the most beautiful sight he had ever witnessed – Sherlock during orgasm. His gray eyes lay naked to John, their visual connection unbroken, his mouth open, puffing harsh, hot breaths. His thin belly glistened under the sheen of sweat as his body folded into itself, his muscles bunching and jerking as his body lost itself in its pleasure. He was trusting John with his moment of utter vulnerability and John was grateful, so grateful.

And then thick white ropes spurted out to land on John's cheek, his neck and the collar of his t-shirt. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the feeling of searing semen painting his skin until he felt a touch on his cheek. Still stroking his twitching flesh, Sherlock, wrecked and sweating, panting through flushed, parted lips, raised his other hand and ran a finger through a stripe of his own come on John's cheek and held it to John's lips; he bit his lower lip when John opened his mouth, eyes still locked with Sherlock's, and licked the come off his finger and sucked on the digit. John ran his finger through a stripe of Sherlock's come on his neck and licked it onto his tongue. He pushed himself up to his lover and stuck out his tongue, Sherlock's come still sitting on it, and pressed his open mouth to his and their tongues collided, mixing saliva and come and sweat in a debauched kiss of pure sex. When their breathing grew labored, they pulled away and John sat back on his haunches, his beautiful lover looking down into his eyes, a stranger no more.

'I missed you, John. I missed you.'

Rampant desire melted into love and John lifted Sherlock's hand to his lips and just held it there, a mute testament to his endless devotion to this man.

'It's only you, John. You don't need to be jealous of Molly', Sherlock said, apropos of nothing.

'It's only you, Sherlock. You don't need to be jealous of Lestrade.'

And that was that. They did not discuss Molly or Lestrade again.

* * *

'Sherlock!' John's very annoyed, very loud voice reverberated through the flat. 'What the fuck!'

'What is it, John?' Sherlock drawled, in marked contrast to John's animated outburst.

'What have you _done_ to my jumper? You bastard!'

He held up a navy blue jumper from which the fabric had been cut out in huge holes in the chest and armpit regions.

'Oh, come now, John. You weren't using that jumper. It's old and faded. And I needed it for an experiment.'

'What the fuck kind of experiment requires you to go destroying my clothes?'

'I was trying to distill your smell.'

'What?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He would have to speak slowly and clearly if he wanted John to understand.

'I watched a very interesting movie – "Perfume – the Story of a Murderer". You should try watching good movies sometimes.'

'And what exactly did you take from this movie that made you destroy my jumper?'

Sherlock grew alarmed at the increasingly red tint of John's face. He needed to quickly explain the completely logical reasoning behind his experiment on John's jumper.

'The protagonist in the movie becomes haunted by the desire to preserve smells forever. He murders young prostitutes and uses the process of cold enfleurage to extract and preserve their scents and creates a brilliant new perfume. The idea intrigued me. I want to preserve your scent but cannot, obviously, _murder_ you for it', he rolled his eyes. 'I chose the next best thing – your clothes. And I picked something that you haven't worn in years. I honestly don't see any reason to be annoyed. Sometimes you are too emotional, John.'

'Emotional? You berk! That jumper meant something to me!'

'It's an _old_ jumper! It's washed out and it has lost its shape! It needs to be discarded. I don't know why you hold on to useless things and clutter up your closet.'

'It wasn't just some _useless thing_, Sherlock', John sounded defeated. 'I was wearing that jumper that last day we spent together. When we went up in the Eye and took our photographs. That was important to me. It held the happiest memories of my life. You scoff at sentiment so it makes perfect sense that memories would mean nothing to you. And now you've ruined mine.'

And there Sherlock had done it – he had jaded the one person who had never spoken harshly to him before. A cold wave of regret and self-loathing swept over him. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to make this right. He had to make this right. He had hurt John. _Say something! Say something!_

'I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry. I didn't know…', he tried to hold John's arm.

'Yeah, you never do…', John brushed him off abruptly, breaking from his hold.

'John, please…'

'Not now.'

John turned to walk away.

'Please, John, don't go. I'm sorry…'

'I need some time. Alone. OK?'

'I'm sorry…I really am sorry.'

'Yeah, I know you are.'

They stayed out of each other's paths for the next two days. John's anger slowly subsided into disappointment and a reluctant acceptance of Sherlock's eccentric ways. He tried to shut down the part of his mind that advised him, quite correctly, that Sherlock was, in his own mad way, trying to immortalize him by extracting his scent. It was, John admitted to himself, one of the most romantic gestures he could imagine and his body flushed warm in the realization that he was important to Sherlock. But the crazy chemist didn't know of a normal way to show John that.

He knocked on Sherlock's locked bedroom door but there was no answer.

'I've left food in the fridge. Please remember to eat', he called out to the closed door.

When he returned that evening from his shift, he saw that the food was gone and the dishes were washed and stacked neatly on the countertop.

The next day, before leaving for work, he knocked on Sherlock's closed door again.

'Sherlock, I'm sorry I shouted at you. Please come out.'

He waited a whole minute.

'Alright, I've got to leave for work now. I'll see you in the evening, yeah? I've made some tea and toast. Please eat. You need to eat. I'm sorry, Sherlock.'

It was John's twenty-eighth birthday. He checked his phone every half hour, watching for a text from Sherlock. An email. A phone call. Any-goddamn-thing to tell him that his lover was speaking to him again. He sorely regretted his outburst at Sherlock and needed to hear his lover's voice again. He missed him. Two days without Sherlock was two days too many. His phone stared back at him blankly.

He was with a patient when his phone buzzed with a text message. His heart pounding with excitement, he quickly excused himself and pulled it out to see a text from Greg Lestrade. They had become friends over the past few months and met once a week for a pint down at a local pub. Greg knew it was John's birthday and asked him out for a drink if he had no other plans.

John texted back.

_Nothing planned yet. I'll let you know in a couple of hours. Want to check with Sherlock. -JW_

John texted Sherlock.

_Would you like to do something this evening? –JW_

When, an hour later, Sherlock had not responded, John texted him again.

_Where are you? Please respond. – JW_

He waited another hour and then, when Sherlock still hadn't contacted him, he texted Greg.

_See you at 8 at the Fox and Whistle? – JW_

His phone buzzed.

_Great! See you there. Happy birthday in advance, John. –GL_

John called Sherlock but it went to voice mail and he left a message.

'_Sherlock, please call me when you get this message. Where are you? I'm going to the Fox and Whistle at 8 this evening. With…uh…with Greg. Please call me.'_

It was turning out to be a _happy_ birthday, after all. Sherlock wasn't speaking to him. Sherlock didn't remember his birthday. Sherlock probably wanted nothing to do with him. Life was just great. He texted Greg again.

_Hey, want to make it 7 instead? –JW_

Greg responded within minutes.

_Sure. See you there. -GL_

He met Greg at the pub at 7 pm. A half hour later, Greg's friends joined them and, his blood alcohol level slightly elevated, John was relaxed and laughing with the raucous bunch, trading stories and friendly barbs about age and how he was fast approaching the end of his twenties. His phone was in the pocket of his jacket which hung on the back of his chair.

'I'm really surprised Sherlock didn't remember it's your birthday. It's not like him to forget.'

'Yeah, he's in a bit of a mood these days. It's alright, though. He's Sherlock. I think we'd all be shocked if he went and did something _normal_ like remembering someone's birthday.'

'You're not just _someone_, John', Greg was serious.

'Some days, that's all I am.' John realized he sounded sad and quickly moved on to a different subject.

The evening passed by slower than John would have liked. At 9 p.m. he pulled his phone out to check if he'd received any texts or calls. Three unread text messages were waiting for him, all from Sherlock.

7:10 p.m.

_Don't go with Lestrade. Reservation at Angelo's for 7:30. When will you come? – SH_

8:00 p.m.

_At Angelo's. Will you come? – SH_

8:30 p.m.

_Forgive me for destroying your jumper. Happy birthday, John. – SH_

John cursed and excused himself, stepping out of the pub. He called Sherlock but it went to voice mail. He called Angelo's.

'Angelo? It's John Watson. Is Sherlock still there?'

'John! John Watson! How are you? Sherlock said it's your birthday today. Happy birthday, my friend.'

'Thanks, Angelo. Is Sherlock still there?'

'I'm sorry, John. Sherlock left a half hour ago. He was waiting for you but left when you didn't arrive.'

'I see. Thank you, Angelo. Good night.'

John looked up from his phone, desperate, regret clawing at him. He cursed himself for not keeping his phone on hand. His eyes darted around the street, blindly, as his mind cursed _Shit, Shit, Shit_!

He sent Sherlock five text messages, asking him to write or call back. He called Sherlock thrice but got his voice mail each time. He headed back to 221B to wait for his lover.

When he entered his dark bedroom, he smelled lavender. Unlit candles. He turned on the light and saw a new navy blue jumper neatly folded in the middle of the bed. It was at least four times as expensive as his original jumper. Five rare Motown vinyl records were neatly arranged in a semi-circle around the jumper. A folded sheet of paper sat on the bed below the jumper. He bit his lip and picked it up. It was a hand-written note from Sherlock.

_Happy birthday, John._

_Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your life these past months._

_Sherlock. _

John's heart broke for his clueless, loveable and loving flatmate, his friend, his lover. There was so much he wanted to say to Sherlock but the mad detective had taken off somewhere. His hands shook as he texted Sherlock.

_I'm home. Please come back. -JW_

Ten minutes later, he texted him again.

_Sherlock, please come home. -JW_

Ten minutes later, he sent a third text.

_I'm so sorry. Please, please come home. Please, baby. Please come home. -JW_

Five minutes later, John felt he was going mad.

_Sherlock, I know you prefer texting but I'm going to call you now. I need you here with me. NOW. -JW_

He pulled up Sherlock's number, pressed Call and held the phone to his ear. He heard it ring and a split second later, sooner than he'd expected, he heard it ring again. Almost like an echo, but louder and more proximal. He slowly turned around and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, holding his ringing phone.

John's phone bounced onto his bed as he flung it aside and ran to Sherlock, threw his arms around his neck and smothered his face and lips and neck with kisses and whispers and breaths and little licks, all the while chiding his lover for leaving him. Sherlock's arms gently held John's shoulders as he allowed him to kiss him over and over.

'Sherlock! Sherlock! I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't see your texts. My phone was in my jacket and I wasn't wearing it. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I thought you weren't speaking to me. I thought you'd forgotten or simply didn't want to do have anything to do with me...Sherlock...I'm so sorry. Please say something!'

'Happy birthday, John.'

'You're speaking to me.'

'I thought you needed more time. I gave you time.'

'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I overreacted. But that night was one of best nights in my life, ever. Everything about it is special to me. That jumper was just some old thing to you but it was special to me because I wore it on the last day I spent with you. Do you see? It held my memories.'

'Forgive me, John. I really am sorry. But I didn't know. And that was then. We are together now. Won't you make new memories with me now?'

'I'm with you. I missed you, Sherlock. Two days of being under the same roof as you but not seeing you or speaking to you - please, let's not do that again. Whatever our issues, let's just talk them through.'

'I don't want to talk anymore.'

'Oh…alright', John backed away, feeling snubbed.

'John…you always misunderstand me.'

'OK, what do you want to do, if not talk?'

'You kissed me just now.'

'I did.'

'Does that mean I can kiss you back?'

'It does. It also means you can do _whatever_ you want with me.'

'Carte blanche?'

'Carte blanche', John affirmed.

'Condoms and lube?'

'Sorry, neither. I wasn't expecting this.'

'Then we need to go to my bedroom,' Sherlock said, clasping John's wrist and leading him to his bedroom.

'It's your birthday, John. What do you want?'

'You. I want you. There's been no one else since you, Sherlock. And I've waited four years to touch you again. I want you.'

'In the spirit of disclosure, Victor is the only person with whom I slept since you. And just that once. I, too, have been waiting for you.'

Sherlock bent down to light a candle and felt a hand touch his shoulder.

'Not tonight. Not yet. Please.'

'You think...'

'We both know what I think, Sherlock. Do you still want me?'

'I want you, John. Always.'

They stood looking at each other awkwardly, not sure who should make the first move. Then Sherlock shook his head.

'This is ridiculous. We're not bloody teenagers, John. I'm going to kiss you.'

He held out his hand and John took it. He pulled John close to him and then their lips were pressed against each other's. They kissed for a long while, feeling each other's bodies with their fingers and skin and lips, savouring the sensation of a lover's caress and felt each other's burgeoning erections press against their bodies, their warm bodies growing hot with yearning.

'Jaawnn...', Sherlock breathed into his lover's mouth. 'Oh god, oh god...'

'I missed you, baby…' John whimpered as Sherlock's fingers busied themselves with the buttons on his shirt.

'Get these damn clothes off! Exactly how many layers have you worn? We're not in the bloody Arctic!'

John laughed and made quick work of undressing, watching Sherlock as he started to take his clothes off too.

'No, wait! I want to unwrap my gift.'

'Isn't it _presumptuous_ of me to believe I am your gift?'

'You _are_ my gift.'

'And _you_ are sappy.'

'And yet you want me. I think we're even.'

'We're even. Well, do you plan to begin sometime today?'

John pushed Sherlock's jacket off his shoulders and laid it neatly on the back of a chair. He ran his fingers down Sherlock's long neck down to the collar of his shirt. He undid the top button and pushed the fabric aside to reveal the dip in his chest.

'Oh god, baby.'

His limbs felt lax with anticipation and his head fell on Sherlock's shoulder and he smiled when he heard the heart inside that pale chest gallop against his ear, knowing that his tall lover was as affected as he. Lifting his head, he placed a soft kiss to Sherlock's chest as his fingers deftly undid the rest of the buttons and pulled his shirt out of the waistband of his trousers. His palms rested flat on Sherlock's chest and moved down to his ribs, his abdomen and then around to encircle his waist. He nudged the shirt open with his nose and placed a soft kiss on his lover's nipple.

'Fuck, John...you're teasing me'. Every synapse in John's brain lit up when Sherlock's gravelly voice, hoarse with desire, rumbled in his chest and vibrated against his lips.

'Am I really?' he teased, smiling against the pale, excited skin. 'I want it slow tonight. Slow and hard. It's my birthday. Will you give me what I want?'

'Anything. Anything.'

'I want to be inside you.'

'Oh god! yes!' Sherlock's breath was unsteady as he pulled John tight against his body.

'You don't think it's too soon?'

'Is six months too soon? I was ready to ravage you the day you first moved in. Anyway, this is too much talk. As I heard in the absolutely horrid movie you made me watch yesterday, "Don't talk. Just kiss."'

John laughed. 'So _that's_ what you got from that movie?'

'Shut up, John and take me. Or I'm coming without you', he drawled as he lay down on his bed and started to lazily tug at his erect cock. The bloody exhibitionist knew exactly what the sight of him like this, in the moonlit shadows, legs spread and long fingers lewdly stroking himself, was doing to John.

'Don't you dare! Hands off! It's mine!'

He bent down to take Sherlock into his mouth without ceremony. His lover gasped and his hips bucked into John's mouth, almost gagging him. John pulled back and pressed back down to suck with redoubled enthusiasm. He laved his beautiful lover's cock with his saliva, teasing and sucking the hot, engorged flesh and then pulled off with a loud pop. He spat in his palm and began to stroke Sherlock as his lips moved to his balls and he pushed his tongue out to slowly lick his scrotum.

'John…' he heard Sherlock cry, almost sounding embarrassed.

'Let me, baby. Please…'

John dipped his head again and Sherlock felt soft lips press against one ball and then John's mouth opened and gently closed around it. Every suck on the firm globe sent a hedonistic frisson up Sherlock's spine and he moaned helplessly into the arm he had thrown over his face.

When John pulled his mouth off, Sherlock lifted his head in protest, crying 'Don't stop!' and then his mouth fell open and he watched, transfixed, as John fixed him with an unbroken, intoxicated gaze from between his thighs and opened his mouth wider to take both balls in and tease them with his hot, wet tongue allowing Sherlock to see him erotically licking along the seam, twirling his tongue to play with the wiry hair, moving his balls in their loose sac. All the while, his spit-slicked hand stroked Sherlock's cock, up and down, twisting at the top, smearing his pre-come over his hardness, feeling his flesh twitch every time his tongue titillated his balls.

Plundered by the overwhelming combination of visual and tactile sensations, Sherlock tugged at John's hair.

'John, stop! I won't last long. I don't want to come like this. Not tonight.'

John drew his hand back and gently opened his mouth wide and allowed his balls to fall out of his mouth, the skin reddened from his attentions.

'Then what do you want, baby?'

'Tonight I want to come with you, while you're inside me. But first I want to touch you. Let me touch you…', he husked.

He pushed John onto his back and ran his fingers down his face, tracing his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his nose, his lips, his jawline, pressing into the soft skin on his neck, drawing his hands down to his collar bones, feeling the strength in his shoulders and then his right hand touched a small patch of skin that felt different from the rest of John. Embossed, glabrous. John's hand closed on his, holding it there.

'Sherlock…'

'Let me, John. Let me…'

'Please…don't…'

'I want you, John. I want _everything_. Don't keep anything from me.'

John's hand fell away and Sherlock gingerly ran his hand over John's scar, palpating, seeing with his fingers, cataloging the size, the texture, the shape of the offending tissue. And then he pressed his lips to the scar and licked, tasting the skin and kissed it again and again for a long time, fully tracing its shape with his lips.

'Oh, god...', John whispered, his voice breaking as he felt Sherlock's homage in his kiss, his understanding, his acceptance.

Sherlock moved up to wipe John's tears away and kiss him very softly, very tenderly.

'Everything, John. I want all of you.'

'Sherlock... I want to be inside you. Now, baby. Now.'

Sherlock moved off John and lay on his back, spreading his thighs apart, bending and pulling his legs up to his chest, feet off the bed, to give John access. A pang of anticipation snaked up his spine when he hear a bottle snap open followed by the squelch of fluid and then, without warning, his cleft was being probed by chilly, slick fingers that quickly warmed up and became bolder in their exploration. He reached a hand down to pull his cheek aside.

'Fuck, Sherlock. I could come from just watching you hold yourself open for me', John husked, watching those long violinist fingers dig into magnificent flesh, pulling it aside for him.

'I'll kill you if you do. Now, do it!'

John ran his lube-smeared fingers up and down Sherlock's cleft, moistening his skin while his fingers danced towards his tight hole and then very, very gently, he pushed the tip of one finger in, just the tip. Sherlock's cock jumped and his nipples hardened to dark nubs at the gentle invasion.

'More!' Sherlock rasped impatiently.

John pushed in until one knuckle, then two and then his entire finger was trapped inside Sherlock.

'Ohgod ohgod ohgod! You feel so tight, so hot. You're so beautiful, baby.'

'More, John, more!' he cried, gritting his teeth against the burn as he was stretched wider than he thought possible with a second finger and then a third, the delicious friction from the hand spearing him making him palpitate, powerless to resist his lover's titillations. His walls began to relax around John's fingers and his body lay boneless on the bed but then, without warning, a jolt of ecstasy shot up his spine as the questing fingers scraped his prostate, drawing a most undignified howl of pleasure from him as his body twisted and bowed off the bed, shaking and shaking.

John was lost in the beautiful clench of his lover's muscles around his fingers as Sherlock's body tried to hold him in. He moved his hand and Sherlock fell back down on the bed, heavy and panting from the unexpected spikes of agony and bliss. A bead of sweat ran down his chest as John pressed soft kisses to his vulnerable underbelly and he continued to loosen him and Sherlock keened when John gently pulled his fingers out.

And then Sherlock had waited enough. He lifted his head. 'Now, John. Now. I'm ready!' he gasped.

John thought he might come from just seeing Sherlock as he did at that moment – tousled hair tumbling over wild eyes, plump lips reddened from being bitten, cheeks flushed with arousal and the tendons of his neck stretched to breaking as he held his head up. John quickly rolled a condom on to his cock, slicked it up and positioned himself at Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock fell back on the bed and closed his eyes, wanting to record every minute sensation he would experience when John finally entered him again after four torturous years of waiting and wanting.

'God, how I waited for this, baby', John moaned as he pushed in, slowly, very slowly, all the way in, in a single, smooth and hard move. When he had bottomed out, Sherlock opened his eyes and, in a faint echo of a union four years ago, gray eyes drowned in blue but this time, the waves of hurt, misunderstanding and pain of the past crashed and broke into nothingness against the bastion of their love. Love. A sentiment Sherlock was still not willing to admit but was inadvertently showing John with every press of his lips, every glance and every touch.

Sherlock's body accepted John as if he were the missing piece in the puzzle of his life, as if he had been incomplete until John entered him. John felt he had come home as Sherlock's slick inner walls cossetted his hot, throbbing cock while his lover's long limbs enveloped him in a warm circle of refuge and worship. They held still, fearing that the slightest superfluous movement or sound could destroy the absolute perfection of this moment - John leaning over his beautiful lover, dropping his head in supplication to softly kiss his cheeks, his eyelids, his lips, his neck, Sherlock surrendering to John with eyes that called out to him in a silent plea to understand him and accept him, his mind empty of all thoughts except John. John. John.

'Sherlock...I...', he stopped himself from saying the words he knew Sherlock detested. 'You mean everything to me. Everything. My baby.'

'Take me, John. Make me yours.'

John's head fell into Sherlock's neck and he started to slowly fuck Sherlock. Hard and deep, taking his time with each pull and push, feeling flesh rub into tight flesh, Sherlock's hole fluttering around his thick shaft as it pierced the helpless body under his. His stomach rubbed over Sherlock's cock and the sweat of their bodies mingled, mimicking the raw exchange of fluids between their legs. Fingers dug into his shoulders and nails scratch a tortured path down his back and press into his hips so hard that a cry of pain escaped his lips and his breath huffed against Sherlock's sweaty neck.

And then John began to fuck Sherlock in earnest. Hard and fast, shallow and then deep, lazily moving his hips in a circle while fully buried inside Sherlock, taking his lover's hips with his, feeling his cock stretch his hole and walls and they could feel each other's pulse where they were joined. They breathed for each other, the ebb and flow of their panting breaths forming a beautiful, metronomic pattern of voice and air, the only sound in the quiet, dark room. Every push into the silken hole pushing the air out of Sherlock, every pull out of him pulling the air into him.

Sherlock's moans grew louder and his fingers curled around his cock to stroke himself to completion. John changed his angle very slightly, unexpectedly pushing against Sherlock's prostate and suddenly a scream of ecstasy tore out of Sherlock and his body jerked and arched away from the bed as his ejaculate spurted from his twitching, throbbing shaft onto John's stomach and chest. His walls fluttered and clamped down on John and he followed a moment later, sighing into Sherlock's damp chest, his body collapsing in an exhausted heap on his lover.

They lay entangled in each other for a long time, Sherlock's arms and legs locking John against him in a tender prison. John finally moved when his flaccid cock slipped out of Sherlock. He pulled off the condom and threw it in the bin. He kissed Sherlock's chest and pulled a few tissues from the night table and cleaned them up, carefully wiping between his lover's cheeks and cleaning their torsos of the evidence of Sherlock's pleasure.

No more words were spoken. They fell into a deep and easy sleep, wrapped in a warm embrace with John's face buried in Sherlock's chest, his lover's long limbs forming a protective cocoon around his pleasured-out body.

The next evening, John found a drawing on his bed. It was a pencil sketch of John's torso with an almost perfect reproduction of his beautifully angry scar. Below the sketch Sherlock had written 'This changes nothing.'

That night, John allowed Sherlock to light a candle as they made love.

The following night, John moved into Sherlock's bedroom.

* * *

'You're not working today. Would you like to come with me on a case? Serial suicides!'

'Sherlock, it's Christmas Eve! Aren't suicides a somewhat grim subject for this time of year?'

'Not just suicides, John, _serial_ suicides! It's a puzzle! Four serial suicides, no sign of trauma, only the fourth victim leaves a note. It's the best kind of puzzle. Oh! It's Christmas _today_!'

Sherlock's eyes shone with excitement and John shook his head in disbelief.

'You do realize you have an almost lurid fascination for puzzles. Four people are dead! Anyway, wouldn't I be in the way?'

'Not at all. I thought you might like to see what I do. And I might be able to use your medical opinion.'

'OK! If you don't mind, I'd love to.'

As with everything related to Sherlock, that day was extraordinary.

It started with the rather unremarkable discovery of a dead woman, a suicide case like three cases before her. What made it noteworthy was that she had left a note and the preponderance of the colour pink – she was dressed in a pink suit with pink shoes, had a pink handbag, a pink suitcase and reddish-pink hair and was missing a mobile phone that led to a murderous taxi driver. When Sherlock and John shot off on an exhilarating chase on foot down London's streets in pursuit of the cabbie, John didn't register the clatter of metal hitting the pavement as he blindly followed his detective wherever he chose to lead him.

The day progressed with Sherlock making astounding deductive leaps to stay three steps ahead of the cabbie at all times to finally nab him in the deserted parking lot of a local library. The drama peaked with John saving Sherlock from swallowing a potentially fatal pill at gunpoint by lunging at the gun-toting cabbie from behind, tackling him to the ground and knocking his handgun away.

And the adventure drew to a close with a weary John loudly and agitatedly berating Sherlock.

'What the fuck were you thinking, Sherlock? You were going to take that pill, weren't you? Just to prove you're clever?'

'I knew what I was doing', Sherlock objected glumly.

'Like _hell_ you did. You had no way of knowing if it was the poisoned pill.'

'I knew the _gun_ was a fake', Sherlock smugly offered in reparation.

'Well, fuck me. You're a _bigger_ idiot than I thought. Only someone who is patently _not_ clever would take a chance on a potentially fatal pill when there was _absolutely_ no reason to!'

He started to walk away and then turned back and stood very close to Sherlock, looking up into his eyes with an expression that was dead serious and when he spoke, his voice was taut and toneless.

'Your life is not yours alone, Sherlock. Not anymore.'

And then he turned around and walked towards the street.

The DI, Donovan and Anderson watched from a distance, out of earshot, as Sherlock stood before John, his head bowed in compunction as John clutched the collars of his coat and barked at him. When John strode away to hail a taxi, Sherlock looked up at their stunned faces. Donovan and Anderson snickered at the sight of the tall, iconoclastic and generally unruffled detective publicly vituperated by the compact, seemingly conservative and presently very infuriated doctor. Lestrade, however, saw something else altogether. He saw _victory_ in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock dutifully walked up to stand behind John and when a taxi arrived, they both got in. The glimmer of a smile passed over his features as John's last angry words echoed in his head.

After the excitement of the chase, and with it John's anger, had died down, they settled down for a quiet dinner at Angelo's. They hadn't spoken since John's outburst.

'It isn't?' he asked John.

John looked up from his chicken parmigiana and read the question in Sherlock's eyes.

'It isn't', he confirmed.

They went back to their meal.

And the day drew to a close with Sherlock and John returning to 221B. The concierge hailed Sherlock in the foyer.

'Get the lift', he told John and walked over to the front desk.

When he entered the lift, he was holding John's cane.

'Lestrade dropped it off.' Sherlock's usually grim mien had relaxed into a tight but exultant smile.

It was then that John realized he hadn't used, or needed, his cane since their chase began. And he hadn't felt this _alive_ since the last day he had spent with Sherlock on his twenty-fourth birthday.

'Thank you for saving me today', Sherlock said.

'We both know who saved whom today, Sherlock. Thank _you_.'

As soon as they were inside 221B, Sherlock dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to John's closed lips and felt him sigh against his lips as John's tongue came out to lick Sherlock's lips open. They kissed slowly, lazily, deeply, feeling the warmth of their bodies seep into each other, their arms snaking around the other man's body to tighten the embrace. After a long while, their lips parted and Sherlock blinked when he saw the _gratitude_ in John's eyes and his mind was crying out _No! No! It is I who should be grateful! You came back to me, John! For that I am grateful._

'I haven't forgiven you', he said and began undressing to take a shower. He locked the bathroom door behind him before Sherlock could enter.

'Open the door, John!'

'Not tonight', John's voice was hard.

Seven minutes later, John padded out of the shower into _their_ bedroom. A towel sat low on his hips and he was rubbing another towel against his wet hair. Sherlock walked up to him and pressed a kiss to his neck, cheekily tugging his towel loose and letting it fall to the floor.

'Sherlock!' he chided, trying and completely failing to look stern as he stood nude and damp, comically glaring at his fully clothed lover. 'I'm still upset with you.'

Sherlock grinned. 'I know. Let me apologize. Lie down, Jaawwn...'

John cocked his head, looking at his lover and then decided to do as he said. He lay back on the silken black sheets, watching Sherlock pick up his violin and circle the bed, licking his lips like a predator sizing up its helpless prey, in this case a naked, spread-eagled John, He pressed a button on the remote for his music system and a song started playing. A haunting melody born on a night full of secrets and dark promises.

Sherlock knelt on the bed by John's head and whispered against his ear.

'Close your eyes, John, and touch yourself. Let me see you come for me.'

'So your idea of an apology is a seduction? And watching me wank off for you?'

'Are you complaining?'

John smiled and his eyes drew shut and his hand walked down his body to his cock which was swelling in a Pavlovian response to Sherlock's voice in his ear, his fingers grasping the hot flesh and stroking languidly. The somnolent strains of a saxophone flowed over the soft tinkling of bells and the seductive twang of guitars as the singer's voice streamed into the mix.

And then Sherlock began to sing. And John was lost. It was more of a narration - he _spoke _the lyrics as the singer sang them, his smoky voice making love to each word as he poured them into John's very soul. Warm breath huffed against the soft hairs on John's belly, exciting his sensitive follicles as lips brushed his skin to form the words and then, in the space of the musical interludes, dropped a kiss, then two, then three on his body.

_And as I wander down to where you lay_

_The blood rushed up to meet the roses in your hair_

A wet tongue darted out to bestow a filthy lick along John's jawline. John thought his cock must be a rose because blood rushed to it, and it stood fully erect, throbbing in his hand.

'Uuuhhhh...' he moaned, his eyes still closed as he imagined Sherlock doing the things he could feel him doing.

_I thought I saw you smile_

_But now I don't see you anywhere_

The singer's voice dropped an octave on the last word and Sherlock's voice was a guttural huff against his ear that rumbled through his body, igniting his nerves. His grip tightened around his cock and his strokes picked up in tempo and length; his head fell to the side as he tried to bury his face in his pillow.

_Whispering your love song in my ear_

_How can you touch me_

_When you're not really there?_

A soft, open kiss fell on his nipple on the word 'there' and cool breath blew on it, freezing it into a taut nub. John bit his pillow. The lips pulled away. Strains of violin twirled over saxophone as Sherlock teased tendrils of melody from his strings and John felt chained by the twisting ropes of sound emanating from his lover's fingers. He imagined Sherlock's long fingers dancing on his sensitive skin, tormenting him, enticing him, dragging wisps of music from his sweet agony.

'I want to see you!'

'Not yet, Jaawwn' the deep voice ordered.

'Ohhhh god, what are you doing to me, baby?' he cried as he spread and thrashed his legs wantonly, still tugging on his turgid cock that was now glistening with pre-come, squelching sounds crudely disrupting the soft strains of the song.

_Stumbling out I made my way towards the open door_

_Climbing fast the sun broad streaming_

_Laughter down into your empty gaze_

Each pause in the lyric was punctuated by a soft kiss to a different part of John's body, his shoulder, his chest, his ribs, his stomach, his navel and he felt his body fall away piecemeal with every press of lips to his skin almost as though Sherlock was slowly destroying his corporeal form leaving only pure sensation. Violin harmonized with saxophone, trilling over a looping sequence of heady, erotic notes and John felt he was going to combust. His skin was on fire and his mind offered up tantalizing images of Sherlock licking his lips and watching John come undone from just his voice and his lips.

_Where can I find you_

_Now I want to join in your game_

_I hear you calling_

_I hear you ... calling calling calling calling_

The guitars swooped and echoed like the cry of seagulls as Sherlock's violin melded with the saxophone and John bit his lip with a groan as his sensitive cock jumped at every scrape of his palm and knuckles, feeling the music suffuse his body like a hot liquid.

Sherlock had moved back to John's neck and whispered, or rather growled, _calling calling calling calling _against his helpless lover's skin and John thought he was listening with his skin. He _felt_ Sherlock calling to him and he had no choice but to follow where his lover led.

'Oh god, oh god, oh god, baby, my baby!'

_Whispering your love song in my ear_

_How can you touch me?_

_How do you really dare?_

The violin dovetailed into the descending guitars and saxophone, overlaying a complementary melody as Sherlock's husky voice thrilled in John's ear, a throaty promise of rapture, of intoxication, of completion. Cool, long fingers wrapped around his and joined in the stimulation of his flesh and a moment later, John's body spasmed and the last vestige of restraint peeled away as he fell over the edge, his come spurting in long, proud streams from his pulsating cock while Sherlock pressed his lips to John's neck as he trembled through his aftershocks.

When John opened his eyes, Sherlock knew he was forgiven.

They lay gazing into each other's eyes for a long time, kissing tenderly and then Sherlock ran his fingers through the come on John's chest, smearing his skin with evidence of his pleasure.

'This is your punishment for showering without me.'

John leaned forward and bit Sherlock's lip.

'Then I want to be punished _every_ day', he smiled against his lover's mouth. 'Come, baby. I'll shower again, _with_ you this time.'

Sherlock kissed him and they rose from the bed to walk to the bathroom holding hands. John stepped into the shower first and a minute later he was being pulled against a warm chest and flat stomach and felt Sherlock's semi-flaccid cock press into the small of his back. Long fingers combed through his wet hair, pushing it onto his forehead in a fringe and John felt a grunt of disappointment against his back when Sherlock saw that his hair didn't reach his eyebrows.

'I want you to grow your hair out a bit', Sherlock breathed against John's ear lobe. 'I liked it when it was longer.'

John turned around and lifted his hands to Sherlock's hair, finger-combing it off his forehead and standing back to marvel at his lover's patrician bearing. He looked so devastatingly handsome that John found his voice had choked and cleared his throat.

'You could be an aristocrat, you know? Or a movie star. You're two different people when your hair's slicked back like this and when it's unruly and curly, like it usually is.'

'Which look do you prefer?'

'It's really hard to choose. I _know_ you with your curly hair so I'd have to go with that. But god, you would turn heads like this. You could turn a straight man gay like this.'

Sherlock grinned and shook his head vigorously and droplets of water flew out at John. His hair hung on his face in wet locks and John stared in stunned silence, his quickly swelling cock sending a clear message of arousal.

'Come here!' Sherlock laughed and pulled John's face up for a sloppy kiss that rapidly escalated into a moaning, heaving tangle of tongues and lips and teeth. His lips dropped kisses on John's cheeks, his closed eyelids, his eyebrows, the tip of his nose, the soft skin behind his ears, his earlobes, his neck... John returned his kisses and with each innocent press of warm lips to wet skin, he made an unspoken pledge to Sherlock to laugh with him, to hold him through his darkest days, to hold him up when he couldn't stand, to be his strength in his times of weakness, to love him as long as he lived. They pulled away and caught each other's eyes and quickly looked away, knowing that something beyond mere physical affection had passed between them. That they had said things to each other without having spoken a word.

John poured out Sherlock's expensive soap into his loofah and started to wash his lover who hummed as John's soft but firm strokes massaged and energized his wet skin and then he gasped John pushed him around to face the wall in an undisguised display of dominance. His hands lay flat on the shower wall to support himself and he felt fingers reach between his arse cheeks, deftly searching and finding. Two fingers played with his hole and soapy foam trickled down his cleft. A warm body pressed against him from behind and soft, wet lips burned a trail down the skin of his back. The adamant fingers slowly began to push into his hole, wriggling around a bit and pulling out and pushing back in.

He let out a shivering breath as the soapy lather seeped inside him, pushed in and moved around by inquisitive fingers and then his lover rose to bring the hand shower head down to wash the soap away. Rivulets of water streamed down fingers that were still buried in Sherlock and flowed inside his loosened hole to rinse out the soap. His skin buzzed as shame and excitement waged a battle but excitement won easily and Sherlock's stomach fluttered in anticipation of the act, intimate and indecent, for which he knew John was preparing him.

John pulled his fingers out and ran them up and down Sherlock's cleft, still rinsing the soap out. He put the shower head back in its mount and laid soft kisses down Sherlock's spine, inching down to the arch in his back while his hands trailed a gentle path down his sides and reached down to his cheeks.

'You're so beautiful, baby. So beautiful.'

'John…'

'Let me, baby.'

John knelt behind him and kissed the dimples in the small of Sherlock's back and then pressed is lips to the top of his cleft. His fingers stroked his beautiful cheeks, tracing the dip behind his hips and then moving onto the plush swell of those glorious globes. Sherlock let out a fevered breath when he felt warm hands gently squeeze and push his cheeks apart and then cried out, a small whine of pleasure, when he felt John's tongue dip into his cleft, hot breath fanning on his sensitive skin. Sherlock's skin was ablaze, the flames originating in that most private of places that John was brazenly tonguing with fervour and need and radiating to the rest of his body, his fingers and toes tingling with the most exquisite and electric sensations.

'Oh god! Sherlock! You're perfect…just perfect' John moaned as he flattened is tongue and licked a broad, wet stripe up Sherlock's cleft and then down again to stop at his pucker to taste the clean skin. He opened his mouth wide and exhaled hard against Sherlock's skin and heard his lover emit a strangled howl. Encouraged, he pressed his tongue against his hole, licking and poking inside and closed his lips around the furled skin and kissed and sucked. Blood rushed to Sherlock's cock and it bobbed with each nudge from John's scorching mouth behind him; his chin hit his chest and his shoulders shook as he sobbed with pleasure, his legs trembling with the experiential excess ravaging his body.

His focus narrowed to the blistering sensations emanating from his hole as John pushed his cheeks further apart, his fingers digging into the firm flesh, leaving angry, red marks in their wake. His flesh felt plundered as John pressed his face inside and nuzzled the delicate skin, relentlessly kissing and licking and nibbling and fucking Sherlock with his tongue, stripping him bare, tearing down every wall, exposing every secret between them until they were just JohnandSherlock and SherlockandJohn. Separate but joined.

'Please John, please oh please ohpleasepleaseplease…don't stop don't stop don't stop!' Sherlock had brought one hand down and was pumping his cock hard while John continued to sweetly torture him from behind and then his legs buckled and he came all over his fingers in long, sticky streams of white that washed away with the warm water. John pulled off and pressed soft kisses to the swell Sherlock's cheeks, reddened from his unforgiving grasp, gently nibbling and licking and then he rose to his feet, breathless, ducking under Sherlock's arm to lean back against the shower wall and look into his lover's eyes. Sherlock's hands were on the wall, on either side of John's head and his eyes were filled with a silent thank you, laced with mortification, for having claimed him with this most intimate of acts. John saw his lover try to bravely hold his gaze.

'No, baby', he whispered in understanding, pulling Sherlock's head down to touch his forehead to his lover's. 'I've wanted to do that to you since the first night we spent together. It was as much for me as it was for you.'

'Happy Christmas, John.'

'Happy Christmas, Sherlock.'

They knew they had crossed another frontier today, both physically and emotionally and, for John, psychologically. Sherlock had healed him. John felt wanted. He felt whole. He felt optimistic. And he owed everything to his mad, passionate, _singular_ detective.

Sherlock knew John had accepted him into his life again. He saw a new light in his doctor's eyes, the light of hope, of faith in Sherlock. His body felt a comforting warmth flow uniformly to every corner of his insides, from the crown of his head to his fingertips and his toes, tingling under his skin. His heart felt heavy but in a good way. _Is this what it was to be happy?_

* * *

**Song / Movie References:**

Sherlock's song of seduction: Missing by Arcadia – Simon Le Bon's voice is beguiling and erotic, and the melody…oh, blast.

Sherlock's movie inspiration: Perfume: The story of a murderer – If you like Ben Whishaw, this masterpiece will NOT disappoint.


	8. The Proposal

Chapter Summary: Because in my mind, they will always get married. And Sherlock still hasn't said he loves John :)

**The Proposal**

'What the fuck is he doing inside alone?' John shouted at Greg Lestrade. He had just arrived at the scene of one of Sherlock's investigations, this one a live situation with armed thugs inside a warehouse.

'He dashed in there without back-up. I tried to stop him!'

'Fuck fuck fuck.' John kicked open the door and saw Sherlock peering at something on the warehouse wall.

'Are you out of your mind? What the _fuck_ are you doing here alone?' John yelled at Sherlock, running up to him.

'Evidence, John!' Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'I needed to see something for myself. And you _know_ Anderson will taint the evidence.'

John noticed movement in the corner of his eye and he snapped his head around and saw a thug pointing a gun at them. His neurons triggered a signal that Sherlock was in danger. _Sherlock was in danger!_

'Sherlock!' John's anguished cry rang out in the deserted warehouse and, instinctively, he roughly shoved his lover out of the path of an oncoming bullet. The force threw Sherlock several feet away and he watched mutely as time seemed to slow and he saw John dive in slow-motion as a bullet whizzed past him and was buried in the wall. And then time stood still as his eyes fell on John lying motionless on the ground.

'John! John!' Sherlock's answering cry pierced the night as two shots rang out from behind them and their assailant fell lifelessly to the ground. Sherlock turned around to see Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan holding up their Brownings, pointing to where the assailant was standing a moment ago.

Sherlock rushed to John and gathered him up in his arms. He was dangerously silent but his face hid nothing from John who was watching him with a dazed look on his face. He had knocked his head on the ground but gritted his teeth to marshall his wits and convince his ashen lover that he was fine. Sherlock was livid.

'I'm not hurt, Sherlock. It was nothing. I'm fine, Sherlock, I'm fine.'

'It's all fine then. Nothing to worry about', Sherlock said, his voice raw and strangled as he released John. He rose to his feet with a sweep of his long coat and walked away, leaving a stupefied John in his wake.

Lestrade ran up to John.

'Hey, are you OK, mate?'

'I'm fine, Greg.'

Greg helped John to his feet and the two men walked out of the warehouse. Sherlock stood a little distance away, smoking. He did not turn to them when Lestrade called out to him. John walked up to him.

'Sherlock…'

'What the fuck was that, John?'

John saw Sherlock's hand was trembling.

'I don't understand.'

'Are you really that idiotic?'

'Hey, Sherlock, give it a rest, OK?' Lestrade had joined them and tried to calm Sherlock down.

'Stay out of this, Lestrade. It does not concern you', Sherlock snapped.

'John?' Lestrade asked.

'It's fine, Greg. Give us a minute?'

Lestrade walked away.

'Sherlock…what's going on?'

'Don't be daft, John. You could've been hurt. You could've been _killed_! What am I supposed to do then?'

'If I didn't, you could've been hurt or killed. What am _I_ supposed to do then?' John's voice was level and matter-of-fact.

'Do you see this as a _contest_?'

'Not at all.'

'Fuck you, John, if you think you can just throw your life away for mine. I'm not worth it.'

'You are.' John wasn't cowed by his lover's aggression.

Sherlock flung his cigarette away and stormed off to hail a taxi and drove off.

Lestrade came over to John when he saw Sherlock leave. He hadn't heard the rest of their conversation.

'He can be a real jerk sometimes. To leave you like this, after you almost took a bullet for him?'

'He's not a jerk', John shook his head sadly. 'Can you give me a ride to Baker Street?'

'Sure mate. You want to go for a pint first? Give him time to blow off some steam?'

'No, I need to speak to him.'

'You two are a right pair of nutters, you know. Let's go.'

Lestrade dropped him off at Baker Street and drove away.

* * *

When John entered 221B, Sherlock was playing the violin.

'Sherlock…' he called out.

His lover didn't turn around and continued to play.

John called out to him again but the notes only got louder and discordant.

John sighed and turned to walk to their bedroom. He was about to close the door when it was stopped by a hand.

'I don't understand, John. You're willing to _die_ for me. Why?'

'You know the answer, Sherlock…'

Sherlock pushed John to sit on his bed and sat on the floor at his feet. He placed his head in John's lap, wrapping his arms around John's waist. His body was still shaking with fear, fear of losing John in a split second of helplessness. John ran his fingers through the dark curls in his lap, soothing and calming his mad lover.

'Why did you rush into the warehouse? What was so important that you couldn't wait till I came out?'

'I wanted to wish you a happy birthday.'

Sherlock had forgotten it was his birthday.

'That could have waited.'

'I also wanted to ask you to marry me', John said, going for nonchalant but only managing to sound miserable.

'John…' his lover gasped softly.

John reached out to the night table and opened the drawer. He pulled out a small box and held it in his hands.

'Sherlock…I want to be with you for as long as I live. You are very, very important to me, Sherlock. More important than my life. I have always liked the idea of someone as a constant in my life. Never gave much thought to whether it would be a woman or a man. But after meeting you, there could be no one else. That day, Sherlock, my 24th birthday, was the day I lost myself to you. You are the constant in my life.'

Both men were silent for a long minute. John didn't look at Sherlock. But he felt Sherlock's unbroken gaze on him.

'And I don't want...I can't look at you right now because you're not saying anything and I think I know your answer. It's fine. It's all fine. I expected this. This is not what you wanted and I understand. I really do…'

Time ticked by agonizingly slow as neither man spoke.

'So there you have it. You decide, Sherlock - you know what _I_ want. I'll leave if you want me to. I'll stay if you ask me to. I'll do whatever you want.' John's voice had become small with terror. It could all come crashing down tonight. This could be the end.

Sherlock still didn't say anything and John nervously raised his eyes to look at him. Sherlock's cheeks were flushed and his eyes swam in unshed tears that threatened to flow down his cheeks if he blinked. He chewed on his lips as he stared at John.

'Sherlock!'

'No! You've said your piece. Just stop!' John had never heard Sherlock sound so torn, so shattered.

'Sherlock...'

'How can you value yourself so little and me so much, John? You're letting me decide? I have no business asking to you leave. I can only _beg_ you to stay.'

'Sherlock…'

'There's so much I want to say to you. I didn't know what to do! When I thought of what might have happened to you today… I can't function without you, John. I tried to imagine life without you and it was hateful! It was terrifying. Like there was gaping hole in me where you used to be and I was bleeding; it felt like I was falling. I don't know what to do without you. I'm falling, John. Right now. And I don't know what to do.'

'I'll catch you, Sherlock. As long as I live. Always. You can lean on me, my love. Always.'

Sherlock's head snapped up.

'Love? You don't say you love me. Not anymore.'

'Doesn't mean I don't.'

'Do you love me? Still?'

'Sherlock. My love, my love. You are the most observant man I know, so I can't believe you're asking me this.'

'Why did you stop saying it?' He hugged John tighter.

'You are also a cruel man. And you don't even mean to be.' John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 'I stopped saying it because you don't care for words. You told me you resented those particular words. How could I think of saying it to you after that?'

'Will you say it again? Now?' Sherlock implored John with sad eyes, wet with hope.

'I'll say it whenever you want me to. I love you. I love you, Sherlock. I've loved you since that first night we spent together and it only gets deeper each day I spend with you. I love you. I love you. I love you. And when you don't want me to say it, I'll show you.'

'Show me now! Let me take you, John. Now.'

'Yes, my love. Take me, take me. I _want_ you inside me. I don't want to wait anymore. I want you tonight!'

'Oh god, John…yes, yes!' Sherlock husked as he pushed John back onto the bed. 'Take your clothes off', he ordered.

He hastily undressed himself watching John strip down and as John tossed his boxers onto the floor, his lips were covered with warm, dry flesh and his lips were being coaxed open by a seeking tongue. With a sigh he parted his lips and the tongue licked inside. His lover breathed into his mouth as their tongues glided against each other and caressed and rediscovered the taste of each other, familiar and yet new this time. Sherlock's hands moved down his body, nails lightly scratching over his chest, his nipples and his ribs down to his vulnerable belly. The taller man leaned over to the night table to grab the lube and condom and moved down the bed to settle between John's legs.

John gasped when he heard the snap of a bottle and a soft, squelching sound told him that Sherlock had poured out the lube onto his fingers. His lover took him in his mouth, sucking on the swollen flesh as the fingers of one slick hand reached for John's cleft, running up and down the crack and carefully opened him with one finger first and then two, pulling back when he heard John hiss at the burn.

'Don't stop, baby…' John husked.

Slowly and tenderly, John felt himself being loosened by Sherlock's long fingers, three of which were insinuating themselves inside him, fucking him slowly as his hole relaxed around the intrusion. When Sherlock sensed that John had relaxed, he gently pulled all three fingers out and gazed down at the slick hole, clenching at nothing, waiting for him to fill it up, to fill John up.

'John…I'm going to take you. I'm going to _fuck_ you now', he growled looking at John through heavy lidded eyes.

'Yes, baby. Please! Take me, fuck me. Make me yours.'

John looked up at Sherlock, open mouthed as he saw him tear open a condom packet with his teeth and spit out the piece of the wrapper held back in his mouth. Lust-filled eyes watched Sherlock expertly roll the condom onto his cock and lube it up. Then Sherlock lowered himself between John's thighs and lifted his legs at the knees to move them on to his shoulders. Sherlock was looking down at his arse and John felt a hard, blunt object poke at his entrance and then, without warning, John was filled in a single, hard push that seemed to have hit his pleasure centre, lighting sparks of ecstasy behind his eyes, in his fingertips, in his toes, in every nerve. John saw rapture in those beautiful gray eyes; he was in love, he was happy, he was complete. Sherlock belonged inside him. He belonged inside Sherlock. He loved Sherlock. He loved Sherlock. And he could tell him now.

'I love you, Sherlock. I love you. I love you. So much. So much, Sherlock. I love you. My baby.'

A torrent of emotions passed over Sherlock's expressive features - love, confusion, terror - and he knew that his lover was being tossed on a sea of sentiment, unable to navigate his way through this storm of passion.

'It's ok, you don't have to say it back, Sherlock.'

'John! I have no words. I can't find my words!'

'Then I'll give you mine.'

'Give me your words, John…'

'I love you.'

'Yes!'

'I don't want to think of life without you.'

'Yes, yes!'

John took Sherlock's hand and held it to his chest.

'My heart beats for you, only you. You have destroyed me and you have saved me.'

'Oh god, John yes!' The dam had broken and Sherlock's feelings surged out of him in a deluge of words.

'I _love_ you, John. I _love_ you! I _love_ you! It's so easy, so simple and I couldn't see it. I _love_ you. With every fibre of my being. I am incomplete without you. Please forgive me for not seeing this earlier. Thank you for loving me. You saved me, John. You saved me. You're always saving me. I love you and my heart beats for you. I'm yours for as long as I live or as long as you want me. I love you. My John. My John…' The truth of Sherlock's words shone bright and clear in his trusting eyes.

Sherlock's hips began to move against John and the relentless pounding brought them both close to the edge and together, holding each other's eyes and bodies and hands, they tumbled over the final precipice into a sea of pleasure and love and happiness. Melding into each other, blissful and undone.

Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. Two halves of a whole. They _were_ complete. They _were _right.

They held each other through the afterglow, unwilling to let go as their bodies trembled with slowly dying shocks of pleasure and their breathing calmed. Sherlock's head was buried in John's damp neck, feeling his racing heart in his jugular thrumming against his lips. He dropped kisses on John's neck, the soft skin behind his ear, his cheeks and eyelids and the tip of his nose and then licked into his mouth in a lazy kiss that evolved into a moaning, heaving tangling of tongues and lips and teeth that was equal parts absolute dominance and absolute submission. Their groans softened to sighs and their limbs wrapped around each other, forming a protective, delicate sanctuary.

When he had pulled off and cleaned them up, Sherlock reached out for the little box on the night table. He opened it and looked at the simple platinum band inside. He took it out and saw there was an inscription on the inside.

_Be mine, Sherlock._

He spoke softly.

'Ask me.'

'Will you marry me, Sherlock?'

'Yes, John. I will.'

They lay in bed, facing each other, just looking at each other. Words were unnecessary. Sherlock's long fingers stroked John's face and threaded through his soft hair. John moved closer to his lover…no, his fiancé, he corrected himself with a smile. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. His lover's arms pulled him close and he breathed into Sherlock's warm chest, listening to the hypnotic beat of his heart as he did each night. He felt Sherlock's lips press into his hair.

'I need to send a text, John.'

'Now?' John grumbled.

'I'm sorry, but yes. It's to Mycroft. It'll only take a minute.'

'Oh, alright', John huffed as he released Sherlock to his mobile phone.

_John has agreed to take you as his brother-in-law. –SH_

A reply arrived thirty seconds later.

_I am honoured and rather relieved to have met with his approval. –MH_

_Don't you want to know why he agreed? He was under duress. –SH_

_I'll try to live not knowing the particulars of his coercion. –MH_

_I don't mind telling you. :) – SH_

_Thank you, but I'll pass. A smiley? I see your doctor is rubbing off on you. – MH_

_He is, indeed! ;) –SH_

_This is puerile, Sherlock. Good night. –MH_

_And congratulations, brother. Your doctor makes you happy and that makes me happy. –MH_

_Thank you, brother. - SH_

John's heart thrilled to the sound of Sherlock's chuckle. A sound so rare, so precious.

'What is it?' he asked, his eyes crinkled with fondness as his hand snaked its way down to Sherlock's cock to tease it back to life, stroking gently from root to tip.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but John looked at him innocently, his hand continuing to do naughty things with his cock.

Sherlock sighed and sank into the sensations John was teasing out of his body and showed him his exchange with Mycroft.

'I enjoy making him squirm. He's going to be thinking about us doing it', Sherlock laughed.

'Leave the poor man alone!'

'He's anything but poor! Anyway, he's got a stick up his arse. Lestrade's cock might be a better tool to shove there.'

'Sherlock!'

'Oh come on. Haven't you noticed Lestrade is gay? I think they'd make a good couple. Lestrade can top. Mycroft's a bottom, I'm sure. _Unnhhhhh!_' he gasped when John's hand did a particularly wicked thing with his cock that caused it to swell again.

'You're terrible! Leave Lestrade alone, leave Mycroft alone and come fuck me again.'

'So soon?'

'I'm still in my twenties, remember? Come on, I don't like to be kept waiting.'

With a happy groan, Sherlock rolled on another condom and pushed into John. This time, their lovemaking was slow and sensuous. John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock's cock languidly rub against his inner walls and he squeezed his hole, gripping the invading flesh and increasing the friction, grinning when he heard his tall lover pant into his neck.

'Fuck, John. Marry me. Marry me! Oh god!'

'Sherlock!' John cried out. 'I can't. I'm sorry, I can't!'

Sherlock's tousled head reared like an irate lion's. He was not amused.

'I can't marry you – you've got your cock up my arse! I can't leave the flat like this!'

'Bastard', Sherlock said, without bite and buried his head again in John's neck. 'My cock belongs in you. It may come out for a few hours a day but it's going right back in every night.'

'I'll be sore! I have to go to work. I can't be sore every day.'

'Oh, _alright_! You can fuck me on alternate nights.'

'You see? Compromise works. It's the cornerstone of any good relationship', John said smugly.

'Idiot.'

'Your idiot.'

'My idiot. I love you, John.'

'I love you, Sherlock.'

A loud growl echoed in the quiet room. John looked pointedly at Sherlock's stomach.

'Sex burns calories', Sherlock explained sheepishly.

'Very funny. I need to feed you up. When did you last eat?'

'What day is it today?'

'Wednesday.'

'Two days, then. Dinner?'

'Starving.'


	9. The Wedding

Chapter Summary: What the title says They get married...

* * *

**The Wedding**

**Three months later -**

'John! Where are you? John!'

'What is it? Why are you shouting?' John stepped out of the bathroom, toweling his hair.

'I've got to go out now. Meet me at 5 outside the building. Dress warmly. Wear your scarf, leather jacket, gloves and boots.'

'What's this about now? We have to be in Dover by nightfall. Or have you forgotten that we're getting married tomorrow? In Dover?'

'Got to dash!' Sherlock called out as he whipped around in his Belstaff coat and headed for the door. And then, in a flash, he was back in their bedroom kissing John.

'How could I forget? Silly John.' He turned to leave and then growled, turned around again and planted another kiss on John's lips. 'Sweet John', he murmured against his lover's lips.

And he swept out with a flourish of blue-black wool. Sherlock made his coat look like a cape, John mused fondly. He had broken the bank to buy his fiancé that Belstaff coat but one look at it on the mannequin and he knew it was made for Sherlock. And it was. Sherlock always turned up the collars, framing his angular, pale features against the dark wool. John sometimes thought Sherlock would make a stunning vampire. He had an unearthly pallor, was achingly beautiful and god knows he could be cold-blooded. And that coat made him look like a young Count Dracula. John slapped his palm against the side of his head and shook himself out of his sexual daydream.

The intervening hours went by in a blur and at 4:55 pm, John cursed. 'Shit, shit. I'm late. Shit.'

He grabbed his leather jacket and gloves, pulled on his boots and paced about before the lift doors, waiting impatiently for the lift. Sherlock detested tardiness. The lift finally arrived and after a seemingly interminable ride down twenty-two floors, John stood outside the building at 5:10 pm, waiting. A silken yet powerful hum caught his attention and he looked to his left and saw a long, lean figure dressed in tight black leather trousers and jacket, black boots, black gloves and a black helmet bestriding a black and steel 1700cc Triumph Thunderbird Commander. A second gleaming black helmet sat on the rider's lap. John admired the motorcycle and the ninja rider and then looked away, waiting for Sherlock. In his peripheral vision, he saw the rider lift the visor of his helmet and decided to steal a look at the face of the enigmatic figure. And then his heart lurched. It was Sherlock. He held out the other helmet to John, turned off the engine, kicked the stand out to park the bike and lithely swung his leg over the seat to dismount. He took off his helmet, ruffled his hair and flashed a dazzling, lopsided grin at John.

'That has _got_ to be the sexiest thing I've ever seen.'

'What?'

'You know what.'

'Tell me.'

'You.'

'Me? How so?'

'Really, Sherlock? Dressed in black leather. Getting off a bike like a fucking gymnast. Taking off your helmet. Ruffling your hair. Grinning at me with your porn star lips. I'm going to film you doing that in slow motion and wank off to it every morning. My cock is so hard it hurts. I'm having a cock-attack. I could take you right now. Right. Now.'

Sherlock laughed and winked at John roguishly, tossing the keys to him.

'Well, you've got to be patient. And you're going to need those to take me to Dover.'

'I thought you were a car man, what with your sexy Jag. Didn't know you like motorbikes.'

'I didn't until I saw you on one.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really. Do you like it?'

'I love it!'

'Good. Because it's yours.'

'No it's not.'

'What do you mean?'

'I can't afford it, Sherlock! Not yet, anyway. This is easily around 10 grand.'

'Again with the money! What is the matter with you, John? I'm going to marry you! If _I _am yours, what's my money? Consider this my wedding gift.'

John caressed the bike.

'Really?' he asked hopefully.

'Yes, really', Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You have got to stop making me repeat myself. Anyway, stop salivating. It's a motorbike. You look like you want to christen it or have sex with it.'

'_Her_, not it. Show some respect. She is a thing of beauty and I'm going to do both things with her. As for christening her, I'm going to call her-' and then he was cut off.

'She's called Sherlock. You can only have sex with Sherlock. Now stop being macho and take me to Dover.'

'And you - stop snapping out orders. Tyrant.'

'Yes, yes.'

'And Sherlock is not a girl's name.'

'It is, if you need a girl's name for your motorbike.'

'Alright, I'll choose a boy's name.'

'Sherlock is a boy's name too, as you well know.'

'My lovely nutter. So we're riding Sherlock to Dover?'

'Yup! _You_ are riding Sherlock to Dover.'

'I would _luurve_ to ride you to Dover, Sherlock', John husked, running his tongue slowly along his lower lip.

'Control yourself, Doctor.'

'What about our things?' John asked. He was, after all, the responsible one.

'Mycroft has already sent them ahead to the hotel.'

John shook his head as he positioned himself astride the bike and turned around to see Sherlock swing a long leg over and around and settle behind him. They put their helmets on and John turned the key in the ignition and groaned when he heard the engine emit a low growl as it sputtered to life, pistons pumping, and then descended into a smooth purr between his legs. He felt his cock swell with thoughts of the coiled power pulsating through the mighty machine.

'Oh god, Sherlock. She's beautiful.'

'Again with the "she". Stop referring to this inanimate means of conveyance as a woman or I'll return it.'

'_She, _not it. And _she _is mine.'

'And what about me?'

'I am yours.'

'Glad we settled that. Now, on to Dover, if you don't mind.'

Long arms wrapped around his chest and a body pressed hard against his back. John nudged the kickstand back with his boot and revved the engine a few times.

'I could come just listening to this sexy vixen hum. Sherlock...thank you!'

'If we don't start moving in the next 3 seconds', Sherlock growled impatiently, 'the sexy vixen goes back to her dealer, you go up to 221B and I rescind my acceptance of your marriage proposal.'

'I love you', John laughed. 'And I _am_ marrying you whether or not you show up for the wedding.'

They pushed their visors down and John grinned under his helmet as he pressed the clutch and turned the accelerator and the motorcycle rolled into motion like a sinewy beast of hot metal and merged with the traffic. And the two happy men took off in the direction of Dover. When they reached the M20, Sherlock's arms tightened around John's chest as he slid forward on the pillion seat and spread his thighs wider to move impossibly close to John, crushed his crotch against John's arse and began to grind his hips rhythmically against John.

A minute later, he placed his hands on John's shoulders and began to lift and lower his arse, undulating his hips so that his erection pressed hard up and down and along the small of John's back.

John pushed his visor up. 'What are you doing?' he shouted over the wind and the sound of traffic, turning his face a bit.

Sherlock pushed his visor up and shouted against John's neck. 'Keep your eyes on the road, John!'

He finally settled back onto the seat, wrapped his arms around John's chest and whimpered loudly.

'Are you okay, Sherlock! Are you okay?'

'I'm better than okay', Sherlock's giggle sounded a little drained and he pulled away from John's body. John twisted his head a little; Sherlock's hands disappeared from his view but he could see his elbows moving about.

'Did you just rub yourself against me, you berk?'

'Eyes on the road!' Sherlock snapped and then pressed flush against John again, wrapped his arms around his chest and dropped his head heavily onto John's shoulder.

A few minutes later, John felt a hand caress his stomach over his jacket. The curious hand pushed his jacket up and played with the button on his jeans, teasingly snapping it open. John's attention began to waver.

'Sherlock!' he admonished, wanting his lover to stop.

The fingers only got bolder and pushed his zip down and stole inside his pants to cup his engorged cock.

'What are you doing? We could get into an accident!'

'In that case, pull over, let me have my way with you and then we can resume', Sherlock drawled, utterly unconcerned about the safety implications of his titillations.

John turned on his signal and pulled over to the side of the highway. He stopped the bike behind a tree, still straddling it with Sherlock pressed up against him like a giant, bony koala bear on a branch; Sherlock's fingers curled around John's cock and began to fondle him with slow, long strokes from his root to his tip, his thumb playing with John's wet slit.

'Sherlock...love. Ca- can't this wait?' John stammered.

'It can. I can't. Seeing you in leather, mounting a hot, throbbing, _masculine _machine of metal and muscle is extremely arousing to me.'

'You mean I make you horny.'

'If you must be crude about it, yes.'

'What about you?'

'Not to worry, I came in my pants.'

'Oh god! You are...'

'The love of your life?'

'Yes, that. And also incorrigible. Now don't stop!'

Sherlock grinned and quickened his strokes and in a few moments, John cried out his release in Sherlock's large palm. Two tissues miraculously appeared in Sherlock's left hand and wiped his palm and John's wet cock. The tissues disappeared and Sherlock's dry hands returned to tuck John back in and zip him up as he panted, leaning over the handlebars.

'You're absolutely mad and I love you.'

'I love you too. Now on to Dover if you don't mind.'

'If _I _don't mind?! You distracted me!'

'It's not _my_ fault that you are unable to multitask.'

John gunned the engine and merged back onto the M20. They reached Dover an hour later and checked into their hotel. John started to walk in the direction of the lifts but Sherlock stopped him.

'I'd like to go to the cliffs, John. If you're not tired.'

'I'm not. Let's go.'

* * *

They rode to the top of the cliffs and stopped close to the edge. John parked the motorcycle and they took off their helmets and placed them on the seats. When Sherlock saw John wrap his arms around himself and shiver a little in the chilly wind, he pulled his lover close to him and zipped up his jacket all the way to his neck.

'I told you to dress warmly. Where's your scarf?'

'I was in a hurry to meet you. Think I left it on the bed.'

Sherlock took off his scarf and wrapped it around John's neck. 'You're supposed to be the responsible one', he grumbled indulgently.

'I like it when you take care of me', John smiled.

Sherlock kissed him softly. John turned to look out at the gently rippling sea and Sherlock held him from behind, his long arms pulling John close against his chest. Brushstrokes of silvery horsetail clouds painted patterns of love against an indigo canvas and reflected in the waters of the Strait of Dover, bathed in orange by the warm rays of the setting sun.

'It's so beautiful here, Sherlock. So serene. I couldn't have chosen a better spot to get married.'

'It _is _beautiful', he whispered against John's neck and then began to recite a poem. And John's heart stood still.

'_The sea is calm to-night._

_The tide is full, the moon lies fair_

_Upon the straits; on the French coast the light_

_Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand_

_Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay._

_Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!'_

'That's enchanting. What is it?'

'Dover Beach by Mathew Arnold', Sherlock said and went on to recite the next three stanzas, his warm breath teasing John's earlobes and neck as the rich, deep voice electrified John down to his fingertips. Sherlock peppered John's neck and cheeks with kisses and once in a while he turned John's face around to kiss him on the mouth.

'Don't stop.'

Sherlock turned John around to wrap his arms around his waist and look into his lover's oceanic eyes.

'_Ah, love, let us be true_

_To one another! for the world, which seems_

_To lie before us like a land of dreams,_

_So various, so beautiful, so new,_

_Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,_

_Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;_

_And we are here as on a darkling plain_

_Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,_

_Where ignorant armies clash by night.'_

John shivered in Sherlock's arms.

'Are you cold?'

'No, it's your voice. Sherlock. Sherlock. Do you have any idea what your voice reciting poetry, _love _poetry, does to me?'

'I'm getting an idea', Sherlock smiled.

John lifted his hands to cradle his lover's face and, standing on tiptoe, kissed Sherlock's plump, pink lips, icy from the chilly wind.

'Sherlock, if I die like this, with you holding me, I couldn't ask for a better passing.'

'What's this dour talk of death, John? We are going to be married.'

John nodded a few times and smiled. When he looked up at Sherlock, his gaze was uncertain; his mouth opened and closed and then opened again.

'You look like a fish, John. What is it? Spit it out.'

'Sherlock', he took a trembling breath. 'I am so, so deeply in love with you. You have stripped my senses. I have nothing to hide from you, nothing to keep from you. Every beat of my heart is for you, my love. We will argue, fight and at times want to kill each other. That's life. But when we do, I want you to remember that I love you.'

'John-'

'No, I need…I need to say this. Please. Let me.'

'Alright', Sherlock said, his lips pressed to John's forehead. He tenderly pushed a windswept blond lock off John's face and placed his hands gently on his shoulders, cocking his head and locking his fond gaze with his fiancé's.

'When I came back, I was…broken. And you made me whole. You saved me and made me want to live again. I love you, Sherlock. Every time I touch you, I thank the universe that someone like you, so beautiful, so special, so _incomparable _is going to be my husband. Mine to hold and love till my dying day. Are you really mine, Sherlock? Because some days I am unable to believe this bloody universe!' he said with an incredulous laugh.

'Maybe this is an alternate universe in which we are married', Sherlock laughed and pressed his lips to John's.

'John. My John. You. Saved. Me. You _saved _me. Not just from my wounds but you saved my heart, my mind, my spirit. I was in a dark place when you found me. My heart was poisoned. You pulled me out and healed me. And that you would ask me – a capricious, acerbic, emotionally stunted man and frankly the most obnoxious arsehole you could have the misfortune of meeting – to be your husband, agree to spend your life with me and, even more shockingly, _love _me while you do that, defies the imagination. It boggles my mind. You look at me like I'm special, like I'm worth redeeming. All I can try to do is continue being that man because the day you stop looking at me like that is the day I have fallen. I love you, John. I love you desperately. I wish you could look inside me and see the fire burning in my heart for you. I love you. And I thank you for marrying me and for giving me the rest of my life to show you how much I love you.'

When they made love that night, it was slow and gentle. Feather touches and soft sighs and kisses conveyed tomes of sentiment and affection. John felt one with the ocean, the waves of his love languorously lapping against Sherlock's body in time with the waters of the strait crashing against the white cliffs of Dover.

'I love you, Sherlock. I love you, baby', he whispered as they fell asleep in each other's arms.

* * *

The next morning, dressed in matching tuxedos, the two lovers stood in the Registrar's office in Dover before a grim-faced Registrar. They looked around in nervous excitement at the beaming faces of Dr. Siger Holmes, Dame Violet Holmes, Molly, Toby, Billy, Simon and Greg Lestrade. In a typical show of sibling-in-law rivalry, Mycroft and Harry Watson stood unsmiling, coldly appraising each other.

'If you have prepared wedding vows, you may now speak them', the Registrar said.

Sherlock spoke first.

'John, I am quite pleased, very pleased actually, to be marrying you. You have demonstrated above-average intelligence and sound judgment by accepting me as your husband. And I can assure you that you are, in turn, making the right choice by marrying me. We meet all the parameters for a successful relationship - we are physically, demographically, intellectually and temperamentally compatible and have a deep regard for each other. On the basis of these factors, I have calculated our chances for a lasting and happy marriage at an astonishingly high 96.3%.'

Sherlock gave a tight, proud nod and looked around smugly, expecting to see the faces of their guests suitably impressed with his piercing analysis of the institution of marriage as it pertained to John and Sherlock. He was met, instead, with expressions of utter disbelief and blinked rapidly, realizing he sounded like a professor giving a dry lecture on science and not a man at his own wedding.

'I want to spend my life with you, by your side and', his voice dropped, 'Mummy insisted I say this...will love and cherish you as long as I live.'

The guests relaxed a little and John smiled.

'Thank you, Sherlock.'

'Well, she didn't _really _need to insist because I do, well, love you. I just don't see the need to publicly declare something of that nature. Why does everyone need to know? I've never understood these preposterous social conventions. Isn't it obvious if we are getting _married_? Nevertheless, now that the deed is done, I'll say it again. I love you, John. So much. So very much', he said and flashed a shy smile at John.

Molly's 'Aww-' abruptly became an 'Oww!' when Billy elbowed her in the shoulder.

'I know, you git. And I love you too.'

'Dr. Watson, would you like to say your vows now?' the Registrar asked, his face relaxing into a smile.

'Not yet', Sherlock interrupted and John saw that something had softened in him. Sherlock's shields had dropped and his eyes looked naked and vulnerable when he added 'John, _I_ want to be worthy of you. I want _you_ to walk through life by my side; _you _are my equal and opposite, _you _make me want to love again and there is _no one else_ with whom I would want to spend my life. You must know that. You _must_.' John's eyes stung as the raw sincerity in Sherlock's voice recalled his own words on that heartbreaking day in Rishayat when he had taken his leave of a wounded Sherlock.

'Sherlock', he said with a tremulous voice. 'Sherlock, there is nothing more important to me in this world than you. _Nothing._ My heart, my body, my mind, my life - yours for as long as you want me. I love you.'

Mrs. Holmes and Molly grew misty-eyed. Siger and Mycroft Holmes directed their uncomfortable gazes at the wallpaper in the Registrar's office. Greg, Harry and the boys beamed. Sherlock lowered his eyes.

'And this could easily be the happiest day of my life.'

Mrs. Holmes and Molly shed a tear. Siger and Mycroft Holmes began to smile. Greg, Harry and the boys let out low wolf whistles. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'What now?' John asked, exasperated.

Sherlock leaned forward conspiratorially and murmured, sotto voce, 'This is not a blog entry, John. Tone down the hyperbole and aim for specificity - happiest day of your life _to date_. You do realize we haven't begun our honeymoon yet.' He waggled his eyebrows at a flustered John.

'Yes. Yes, thank you, Sherlock.' John huffed in embarrassment. 'May I continue with my vows, if you wouldn't mind very much?'

'Please', Sherlock allowed and drew himself to his full height, settling his features into their usual imperious expression.

'Git', John groused and cleared his throat. 'As I was saying before you decided to interrupt me, I love you, Sherlock. It will be my greatest privilege to walk through life by your side. And I will endeavour every day to make you happy and be deserving of your love, because I will love you till the day I die. I love you.'

John leaned forward. 'And I'm really looking forward to beginning our honeymoon', he whispered and winked at Sherlock. They shared a small, private smile, full of mischief and teasing.

John turned to look at the Registrar, waiting for the instruction to exchange rings.

'Dr. Watson', the Registrar said gravely, 'I am sorry.'

'What is it? What's wrong?' John asked, worried.

'I'm sorry to say that last bit was a little louder than you had intended', the Registrar said with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

'Um...really?' John asked him and looked around. Nine beaming heads nodded and chorused 'Really.'

'However', the Registrar smiled and continued, 'I am not sorry to say that we are all as eager as you both to see you make good on your promises and...start that honeymoon without further ado.'

Rings were exchanged and Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson were joined in a legal, civil partnership. The new husbands kissed sweetly, for an embarrassingly long moment, and when they pulled back, John looked up at Sherlock. My husband, he thought. My. Husband. Sherlock's eyes creased with affection and he silently mouthed 'Your husband', affirming John's unspoken thought.

Everyone cheered. Mrs. Holmes dabbed at her eyes and leaned into her husband's embrace. Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged a loaded look. Toby and Simon kissed passionately; but for the tuxedos on the actual grooms, an onlooker might have mistaken them for the happy couple. Harry looked at Molly but saw her looking at Billy and turned away.

* * *

The guests and the newlyweds drove to Dover's finest restaurant where they sat down to a wonderful dinner and champagne. The golden ambience reflected the warmth that flowed between the men and women seated around the happiest table at the restaurant.

Every once in a while, Sherlock leaned down to press his lips to his husband's cheek and neck and pulled his hand up to kiss his ring, causing John to flush furiously, much to the amusement and delight of his in-laws and friends. Emboldened by his husband's overtures and the encouragement of their guests, John turned to Sherlock and pulled his face down for a long, sweet lip-lock. A great cheer went up from their guests and they parted hurriedly, unable to look anyone in the eye for the next few minutes while their burning, crimson cheeks slowly retreated to their normal temperature and colour.

Mycroft seated himself beside Greg Lestrade and the two men engaged in a halting conversation that Sherlock was certain would be continued in more private circumstances once the two men returned to the city.

Molly cooed over Billy who was very happy to return her affections.

Toby and Simon held hands and entertained Mrs. Holmes with accounts of their adventures in Uni with her son. A little too often, her eyes widened in shock at the things her son had done and the boys hurriedly changed the subject to safer topics like examinations. Siger Holmes stepped in with a well-timed 'Boys will be boys, Violet. Sherlock has John now. He'll be fine.'

Sherlock recounted his adventures in Dikhsaar to Harry who listened without interrupting, amazed at her new brother-in-law's courage and her brother's selfless love for him. She caught the eye of the charming waitress; when the latter returned with the bill, she slipped a second piece of paper to Harry with her phone number.

Sherlock and John finally bid their guests goodbye.

'Welcome to the family, John. Siger and I couldn't be happier that Sherlock has found you. You have our gratitude for saving the life of our son and your husband. We wish you both every happiness in life. Everything that is Sherlock's is yours, John. Mycroft is your brother and, if you will allow us that privilege, I would be touched if you would call us Mummy and Father. I trust my son to you, John. Please take care of him.'

'Thank you, Mrs-, Mummy. Thank you. I'm…I'm so grateful. I love your son and I will never leave his side.'

'I know, John. I know you will.'

'John', Dr. Siger Holmes began. 'I wish you and Sherlock the best. I'm not good with this kind of thing so everything my wife said, she said for herself and for me. Welcome to the family, son. Sherlock is very special, John, and I am very happy that he has found someone who sees that and loves him for what he is.'

'Thank you, Sir.'

'Congratulations, John and all the best', Mycroft wished him with a prim nod and tight smile which disappeared when he turned to Sherlock. 'Brother mine, good luck to you. I'll be watching.'

'Yes, brother dear. We know you like to watch', Sherlock said with a slight smirk.

Mycroft forgave his brother's impudence and his eyes filled with affection and relief as he pulled Sherlock into an embrace. 'I'm happy for you, Sherlock. Don't mess this up', he whispered into his brother's ear.

'I won't. Not this time', Sherlock assured him.

'Well, John', Lestrade walked up to them. 'You managed to ensnare the one and only Sherlock Holmes. Cheers, mate! And well done!'

'Thanks, Greg!'

'Lestrade', Sherlock said with a curt nod and shook Lestrade's hand. Lestrade pulled him in for a quick hug and they separated when Lestrade's mobile phone chimed with a text message. Sherlock had texted him Mycroft's mobile number.

'Thank you', Sherlock added with a small smile.

'Thank _you_, Sherlock!' Lestrade laughed with a wink.

'Well, Johnny, you've found yourself a looker', Harry offered her appraisal of John's husband. 'Better watch your waistline, little brother, or this one will leave.'

'I will not!' Sherlock objected.

'Sherlock, take care of Johnny. He's…he's very dear to me. I haven't been the best sister but he's the best brother I could ask for.'

'I'll always take care of your brother, Harry. Trust me. Thank you for coming.'

The moment Harry moved past them, Sherlock was lovingly set upon by his four friends. Their group hug tightened progressively until Sherlock found it difficult to breathe and he cried out to be released.

'Yes, you are happy that I'm married. I get it. But please, I stopped breathing for a whole minute there!' he panted.

The four emotionally compromised idiots shuffled back and blathered their congratulations and good wishes to the couple, took turns hugging John and shaking his hand and then returned to what they really wanted to do - hang on their tall leader's neck. Sherlock relented and returned their embraces throwing John a resigned look that said _What choice do I have?_ while John stood back and watched in amusement.

One by one the guests filed into their cars and headed back to London, leaving the happy couple to consummate their marriage, not thinking for a minute that there was any form of consummation the two young lovers had left unexplored in the four fraught years leading up to this happy culmination.

This had been a day for joy. It had ended in a night for love.

A/N: A couple of photos (Pic 1 / Pic 2) of the Triumph Thunderbird Commander motorbike Sherlock bought for John. This bike is definitely a boy (John was wrong). Feel free to imagine them riding it and doing whatever they did in the chapter above. ;)

* * *

Chapter End Notes

A/N: Johnlock ALWAYS and FOREVER and not even Moftiss can convince me otherwise.

Final chapter coming up: The Honeymoon


	10. The Honeymoon

Chapter Summary: What the chapter title says...:)

* * *

**The Honeymoon (or, in Sherlock-speak, Sex Holiday)**

The new husbands retired to their penthouse suite on the fifteenth floor of the hotel, happy, excited and just a little nervous about the journey of life on which they were about to embark. Sherlock threw open the doors to their balcony and drew the curtains aside; the reflection of the gibbous moon shimmered against silver ripples in the calm water as the moonlight streamed into their room.

When he turned around, John was looking at him with an expression he couldn't decipher. And he thought he knew every expression to ever cross John's face.

'Are you tired?'

'No, no. I'm not tired', John said and walked up to him. He stood on tiptoe and kissed Sherlock's lips. 'I want you, Sherlock.'

'And I want you. Always.'

'I want you to take me tonight, baby', John said, running a finger down the side of Sherlock's face, tracing his cheekbone and dipping down to the corner of his lips.

'Oh. I actually wanted you to take me.'

'Um...no reason we can't do both', John giggled, 'but I want you to take me first.'

'Does the sequence matter?'

'It does to me. The first time we slept together, our first night of pre-marital sex, I took you. Do you remember?'

'_Pre-marital_ sex? John, you are adorable!' Sherlock grinned and dipped his head to kiss John. And then his grin quickly dissipated into a scowl. 'Dammit, you're a bad influence on me. I never used saccharine words like _adorable_ before I met you.'

'And you are adorable too. I adore you, my sweetie', John teased him.

'Stop. You're distracting me. You have this infuriating ability to make me _want_ to be called by ridiculous pet names.'

'Like "sweetie"?' John asked, a fond smile creasing his face.

'Yes, like "sweetie". Could I become any more pedestrian?' Sherlock grumbled. '_Anyway_, how could I forget our first night of pre-marital sex? You left me right after.'

'I came back within two minutes! And I apologized, you git!'

'So you did. But it was seven minutes', Sherlock pouted and John, melting with love, pulled him down for a deep, wet kiss.

'I want our first night of _marital_ sex to be the opposite. I want you to take me first.'

'My sentimental John. I love you.'

Sherlock's lips pressed into John's and their eyes closed as they lost themselves in the soft sounds they were drawing out of each other. Sherlock's tongue dragged against the seam of John's lips and when they parted with a sigh to give him access to John's mouth, he licked inside the familiar wet cavern with a new eagerness, a new need to kiss his husband and claim him for eternity. They kissed for a long time, their silhouettes framed by the gently billowing curtains.

'Sherlock', John said hesitantly, chewing on his lower lip. 'Now that we're married, I…uh…'

'Yes, John', Sherlock affirmed.

'Yes?'

'Yes, John. I don't need condoms if you don't.'

'You read minds now? Just _how_ could you know what I meant?'

'Elementary. You sent me for a physical a month before our marriage. They drew my blood. And yours – you had a physical too. I know you had our blood tested at three different laboratories. I saw the results so I know we are clean. And therefore – yes, John, I don't need condoms if you don't.'

'It's at times like this that I'm so glad you're a detective. Saves me having to ask embarrassing questions like "Sherlock, love, would you mind if we barebacked?"', John laughed.

'John, I _want_ to bareback with you. I've wanted to for a long time but I know that as a doctor, you'll always put safety first. Now, however, we are married and clean and are going to be monogamous.'

'I don't really have a choice with the monogamy, do I?'

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

'Just can't get it up for anyone else. My cock only salutes you', John admitted with a sheepish grin.

'Always an army man', Sherlock laughed and kissed him. 'I'd really like to get you naked now.'

'And I want to get naked for you.'

'Shower?'

'Oh yes, please!' John answered enthusiastically and started undressing. Sherlock also took off his clothes, placing his tuxedo, waistcoat and trousers neatly on an armchair and dropped his boxers on the floor. John hurried into the bathroom, naked, rubbing his arms as he shivered in the cool breeze and Sherlock chased him inside, grabbing him from behind and turning him around to kiss him sweetly.

'John…Jaawn…', Sherlock murmured between kisses. 'I love you so much. One day you're going to tire of hearing me say that.'

'Never! How could I, baby? I'm so crazy about you.'

The hot water coursed down their bodies and skin slid over slippery skin as the two lovers touched and caressed with their fingers and lips. Sherlock squeezed soap into a loofah and washed John lovingly, rubbing it gently into his skin and licking his lower lip as John hummed with his eyes closed. He watched the fragrant foam break off into bubbling islands of lather and slither down the lithe muscles of John's glistening golden body.

'Lift', he said, tapping on John's right thigh.

John leaned back against the shower wall and raised his right leg to place his foot flat against the opposite wall. He watched as Sherlock squeezed foam onto his left palm and fingers and wrapped his right arm around John's waist to pull him close. His left hand made its way under his thigh up John's cleft, soapy fingers feeling through the divide, seeking and finding his hole and tracing circles around the furrowed flesh. John's hole felt aflame and clenched involuntarily at every prod from the inquisitive fingers.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back and dropped his head on his lover's chest, raising his leg higher to give Sherlock more access to his hole and gasped hotly against Sherlock's skin when he felt a slick finger poke inside him. It poked in an inch and pulled out and poked in again. And again. And then it moved around in a circle, pulling at his rim and stretching him and John's foot began to slip down the wall as he gave himself over to his husband's maddening caresses. In a minute, two more fingers joined in and John hissed at the burn. John began to suck on Sherlock's nipple, feeling it harden under his tongue.

At every press of long fingers into his hole, John swiped his tongue on Sherlock's nipple and alternated between nibbling and sucking on it.

Sherlock kissed John's wet hair and his arm tightened around his waist while his fingers drove deeper into John but not deep enough. His sensitive rim clenched around Sherlock's fingers, trying to hold him in and with every scrape of skin in and out of him, he felt a shiver of pleasure run along the length of his cock as it twitched in response and he reached his hand down to touch himself.

Sherlock slowly pulled his fingers out of John. 'No. Turn around', he ordered and lowered himself to his knees.

John brought his leg down and turned to face the shower wall and spread his legs. A frisson of possessiveness shot down Sherlock's spine when he heard the clink of John's ring on the tile. The realization that he was making love to his husband was overwhelming and he pressed his lips to John's arse cheek and bit lightly as his fingers found their destination again and pushed in without fanfare. John felt himself being cleaned inside as those insistent fingers pushed the soapy foam in and began to scissor and stretch him. And then his mind was wiped clean of thought when Sherlock curled his fingers downwards and the pads of his fingers rubbed against his prostate.

'Oh, baby!' he cried out as he exploded with sensation.

Sherlock smiled and slowly repeated the gentle motion until John began to shake hard as jolts of ecstasy wrecked his body and thick strands of come spurted from his untouched cock to meld with the shower's stream and wash away. Sherlock pressed his lips to the small of John's back as his husband moaned and his twitching cock continued to spew slick, white ropes for long moments, the come landing sometimes on the wall and sometimes on John's thighs as the swollen, unimpeded shaft throbbed and jerked with pleasure. John's focus narrowed to the little point just inside his passage whence electric sensations pulsed through his body, filling his mind with a white light and ravaging his nerve endings until he finally cried out when his oversensitized prostate rebelled against any more stimulation.

'Baby, stop! I can't take any more! Please, stop!'

Sherlock gently pulled his fingers out and watched, fascinated, as John's loosened hole winked erratically, trying to fill the emptiness left by Sherlock's fingers. On the other side, John's cock began to slowly contract and fall towards his thighs.

John's chin dropped to his chest as he stood panting, his arms holding him up against the shower wall. Sherlock stood up behind him and pressed his long body to John's, wrapping his arms around John's heaving chest to pull his shoulders against his body and press his burgeoning cock into the curve of John's back, his balls squeezing against the soft skin at the base of John's spine. He lowered his head and placed his lips softly against the thrumming jugular in John's neck.

'John, my John, you're so beautiful', he whispered as he ran his hands along John's outstretched arms from his shoulders to his wrists and then wove his fingers with John's on the shower wall, licking his husband's neck when their rings caught on each other. 'I love you, John. Thank you, thank you.'

'I should thank you, love. That was the longest orgasm I've ever had. And I didn't even need to touch myself. Where did you learn that?'

'Um…YouTube…'

'Really?' John asked incredulously, turning around and bestowing a smile of gratitude and wonder at his lover. 'You never cease to amaze me, Sherlock. I'm so fucking crazy about you, you mad, beautiful thing.

I want to make you happy. How can I make you feel good, love? Should I suck you?'

'You could, but I don't want to come like that.'

'Then how?'

'You want me to tell you?'

'Yes. Oh god, yes, tell me _exactly_ how you want to come', John husked, knowing what Sherlock's answer would be but still wanting to hear it spoken by those sinful lips.

'I want you on the bed', he growled in a voice so low it was almost subterranean, 'lying on your back with your thighs spread for me, your legs wrapped around my waist. I want to lie on top of you and press my cock into your arse, naked. Raw. Bare.'

John let out a ragged moan and looked at Sherlock through heavy lidded eyes, following the path of the hot water as it clumped his thick curls into dark, long locks and then trickled down his pale skin in tantalizing rivulets that licked the dips and planes on his face and made their way down his long neck to collect in small pools in the hollows behind his clavicles and spilled over onto his chest, parting around his nipple to flow down the muscles of his abdomen, directed by the sparse hair on his chest and belly to the dip of his navel and finally disappeared into the dark bush between his legs.

Sherlock placed his hands on John's shoulders and bent his head to press his lips to the soft skin behind his ear. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's hips and grabbed his arse cheeks. He pulled one cheek aside with one hand and pressed the other soap-slicked hand into his cleft, drawing his foaming fingers up and down the puckered skin and reaching for his hole and pressing inside, teasing and cleaning his lover. Sherlock lifted one leg to wrap it around John's waist and pull him close, his erect cock digging into John's belly.

'No condom, just skin', Sherlock's voice rumbled against John's neck, each word an erotic breath singeing his wet skin. 'Skin against skin. Skin _inside_ skin. I want to feel the slide of your skin on my cock as your hole grips me tight when I take you.'

John felt vanquished. Sherlock's words were stripping him bare and he panted hard against his husband's chest as his mind painted a picture of Sherlock doing those decadent things to him. He pressed a finger inside Sherlock, grinning at the restoration of the balance of power when he felt a shivering huff of warm breath on his neck. He pulled his finger out and pushed it in with a second, and then a third finger, fucking Sherlock slowly with his hand. Sherlock's breath stuttered and his arms tightened around John; he was silent for a moment, lost in the hedonistic whorl of bliss John was stirring up in him.

'And then?' John prodded triumphantly.

'And then I want to pound my cock inside you over and over- Unhh! Unhh! Unhh! Jaawwwn!' Sherlock cried brokenly as John slammed slick fingers inside him. Sherlock's chest heaved as his breath became hard and irregular.

'Over and over', he continued bravely, fighting to keep his voice level as he trembled from John's onslaught between his legs, 'until you're crying my name and spurting your come on my fingers. And then I want to come inside you and fill you with my hot seed. You'll feel me come inside you, burning you, branding you as mine. I want to pull out and see my come dribble out of you. And then I'll enter you again and stay in there until I go soft. Would you like that, Jaawn?'

'Yeah', John panted and slowly pulled his fingers out of Sherlock. 'I think I might like that. Fuck. I want that, Sherlock! Now! Can we get out of this bloody shower already?'

'You're being impatient, John. We have all night', Sherlock drawled and ran the shower over his body and his arse, washing the soap away.

'You bloody tease', John grunted and pulled him down for a kiss.

They hurriedly dried themselves off, dropped the towels on the bathroom floor and fell, sighing and gasping, onto their enormous bed. John's mouth was on Sherlock's, pushing inside with his tongue, licking his lover's tongue and cheeks and teeth and drinking in his mewls of pleasure. His hands traced Sherlock's face and then he pulled back to look into Sherlock's eyes but they were closed.

'Sherlock', he called and shook his lover's shoulders lightly.

Those beautiful lashes separated and John drowned in the eyes of the only man he had ever loved.

'Sherlock, tell me you're mine', he pleaded.

'I'm yours, John', Sherlock whispered and placed a soft kiss on John's forehead.

'I love you so much, Sherlock.'

'And I love you, John. Everything I have, everything I am is yours.'

'I want to study you, love. You're so beautiful. You've such a beautiful body. I want to kiss you everywhere and label every part of you.'

John kissed Sherlock's cheekbone. 'Zygoma', he said.

'Labium superius oris and labium inferius oris', he whispered against Sherlock's kiss-swollen upper and lower lips.

His mouth sucked a wet path down Sherlock's neck in a drinking motion and licked into the hollow behind Sherlock's collar bone. He kissed along his neck muscle all the way to his shoulder, stopping in the middle to suck hard on the skin. 'Trapezius', he whispered and then pressed a kiss to his shoulder. 'Deltoideus.'

Sherlock felt soft lips kiss along the length of his arm and around its circumference. 'Biceps brachii. Triceps brachii.' John sucked hard on the delicate skin on the inside of Sherlock's bicep.

John lifted up and kissed Sherlock's lips again. And then he moved back down to kiss Sherlock's chest, first outside and then inside, lapping and nibbling on the pale skin. 'Pectoralis major. Pectoralis minor'.

He looked up at Sherlock and saw him lifting his head, his mouth open and breathing in short, heavy bursts as John venerated his body. John smiled and dropped a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his nipple and Sherlock's head fell back on the pillow, his eyes drawing shut as he gave himself to John's examination.

'Latissimus dorsi. Serratus anterior', John whispered against the muscle down Sherlock's side as he drew his lips to the striations above his ribs. He kissed his belly and licked into his navel. 'Umbilicus', he murmured and began to suck hard on the thin skin on Sherlock's belly, pulling it into his mouth and nibbling on it, certain that purple bruises would form the next day wherever he had sucked on Sherlock's skin.

'You're marking me.'

'I am. Problem?'

'Not at all', Sherlock panted and closed his eyes, abandoning himself to John's attentions.

'Unhh!' he gasped when John's mouth closed over his cock without warning and took him all the way in. His entire shaft was cosseted in a warm, wet tunnel and he felt cherished and wanted and loved. Every swipe of John's tongue on his sensitive tip and every suck of his hollowed cheeks sent pleasure tingling through his body all the way to his fingertips and toes. And then John pulled off and nuzzled the dark bush, licking into the crease of Sherlock's thighs.

Sherlock raised himself on his elbows.

'My turn', he said, pulling John up to the pillow. 'Turn over, John', he husked into John's neck and tugged at his hip, turning him over.

'Look at you, John. You're magnificent, my love.'

Sherlock straddled the backs of John's thighs and drew his fingers down his sides, over the corded muscles of his back and down to his slender hips and then began to caress and knead his taut arse cheeks. The golden skin blemished with each squeeze and Sherlock was overcome with a sense of ownership when he saw his fingers leave reddened impressions behind. He slid down John's legs and dropped his head to kiss one cheek. 'Gluteus maximus', he murmured against the soft globe and John could feel him smile against his cheek. Sherlock pushed a pillow under John's hip to lift it up.

John pressed his face into his pillow, panting and trembling with excitement, his heart hammering in his chest as he waited impatiently for the inevitable invasion of his most private part by Sherlock's lustful mouth. His cock pointed down and lay heavy on the pillow, pink and swollen between his legs and he spread his thighs under Sherlock's. Soft lips pressed into his skin at the top of his cleft and along the small of his back and John relaxed at the tender ministrations of his husband. This was going to be a gentle possession, he thought. But he was mistaken because suddenly, without warning, fingers dug hard into his cheeks, pulling them apart and he felt Sherlock's long face press into his cleft and then he was captured by a flat, wet tongue licking along his cleft, up and down, drawing all the way down to the tip of his squashed cock and then licking up the shaft, licking in circles and sucking his balls, teasing the fragile, wrinkled sac loosely wrapped around the firm twin globes, and then dragging along his perineum to reach his cleft, warm breath searing his electrified skin.

The hard tongue sought and found his most intimate spot, licking and probing and laving in an unashamed and unquestionably proprietary display of affection. And then the curious tongue pressed into his hole, stabbing inside rapidly, twirling and snaking past the tight rim and pulling back out and pushing back in. With each wet thrust into his hole, John cried into his pillow, his fingers fisting in the sheets with unimaginable pleasure. The muted cries only fuelled Sherlock's fervour and he ravaged John, leaving no millimeter of skin on his cleft un-licked, un-sucked or un-kissed. John felt Sherlock's lips close around the furl and suck it deep inside his mouth, stretching it and releasing it wetly, letting it pop back only to suck on it again. When Sherlock began shaking his head from side to side, still sucking on his flesh, flames of ecstasy blazed through John's impassioned body and culminated in a tormented scream from his lips. He sobbed helplessly as Sherlock's fingers dug hard into his hips and his hungry mouth inexorably staked his claim on his husband's body over and over, burning him, enslaving him.

When he couldn't wait anymore, he lifted his head from the pillow.

'Take me now, Sherlock. Please! I need you inside me. Take me, love. Own me!'

Sherlock pushed himself up and fell on John's body, kissing his way up his back and turned John's head around to kiss him, not caring where his mouth had just been, their filthy and wet tongues colliding, each lick and each suck a relinquishment of control rather than an assertion of dominance.

John rolled onto his back, spread his legs on either side of Sherlock's hips and cradled his face in his hands.

'Do everything you said you wanted to do to me. Give me _everything_.'

Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, paralysed by a deluge of sentiment. 'I love you so much', he rasped. 'So much.'

'Then show me. Take me, love.'

Sherlock swallowed and willed himself to move and reach for the lube. He coated his fingers and easily penetrated John's loosened, spit-slicked hole with three long fingers. He stretched him slowly, carefully, twisting his hand on each push inside and scissoring gently to help John adjust. A few minutes later, he felt John's rim relax and he pulled out to slick up his cock.

'John, my love. My love', he whispered as he held his unsheathed cock at John's entrance and pressed against the skin. John's hole clenched and then John sighed and his hole opened to take Sherlock in and slowly, very slowly, Sherlock pushed inside just enough for his swollen tip to breach John's rim and then some more and some more until he was finally fully inside John. It felt different without the barrier of the condom. It felt pure, potent and devastating, as though the last limiting blockade had been washed away and the waters of their love were free to crash over them and flow where they chose. It was wonderful. Sherlock felt intoxicated. He felt _complete_. And when he looked into John's eyes, he saw himself reflected in large, wet pools of blue, gazing up at him in naked submission and adoration.

'I'm inside you, John! Oh! Oh!' he gasped. 'Just you and me. Just you and me. Oh, god. You…'

A single tear ran down the side of John's face. His mouth fell open and he silently tightened his legs around Sherlock's hips to pull him closer, his eyes pleading with his lover to possess him. Sherlock understood; he dropped his head to John's neck and began to thrust into his love, slow and deep, feeling every press of John's walls around him like a wet, silken glove wrapped devotedly around his skin. He began to snap his hips, piercing John smoothly as his own pre-come eased his movements.

John's fingers curled around his own cock and he began to pump himself from root to tip in time with Sherlock's movements, enticingly undulating and swiveling his hips as he tantalized Sherlock, savouring the thrill of his naked cock moving inside his passage and feeling his lover's groans vibrate through his skin.

The air filled with squelching sounds and loud moans; Sherlock's cries grew louder and when he climaxed, muffled screams of pleasure fell from his flushed, parted lips as he tumbled over the edge and came inside John. His scorching seed flooded John's passage as he came and came, pulsing inside his husband's sultry, fluttering tunnel and he dropped his head to John's chest, wrecked and shaking, his breathing hard and uneven against John's skin as he struggled to slow his racing heart.

A moment later, John's back arched and his belly pressed up against Sherlock's as he came with a long moan, his come dribbling over his fingers and painting Sherlock's belly in white. Sherlock pressed kisses to John's neck as they both shuddered through their orgasms; John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, holding him close and stroking his fingers down his back, whispering sweet endearments in his ear and holding him through the shattering waves of pleasure plundering his body. A few long minutes later, Sherlock kissed a trail up John's neck that ended on his lips in a soft kiss of satiation. Their lips began to move against each other and their tongues met again, a tender joining of flesh and spirit, of two souls that had come together never to be drawn asunder.

When Sherlock raised his head to look at John, a tear was making its way down his right cheek. John reached up to wipe it away but another tear took its place and then both of Sherlock's eyes welled and he blinked to clear his vision while his chin quivered with emotion.

'Just a physiological reaction?' John asked, his eyes brimming with understanding and acceptance. He knew Sherlock remembered their first night together when they had breached an emotional barrier but John had abandoned a tearful Sherlock in his bed.

'Not then, not now', Sherlock confirmed John's suspicion in a tremulous voice.

'I knew it', John said smugly.

'I'm sure you did', Sherlock huffed into John's neck.

'I knew then that I loved you. I really did. You were so incredible, Sherlock. Almost unreal. And you just swept me away. You still do, every day. I love you.'

'I love you, John.'

Sherlock pulled his semi-flaccid cock out of John and watched his come trickle out of his hole down his skin and then pushed back in, plugging up his lover and dipping his head to kiss him again and again and again. When finally he was fully flaccid and his cock slipped out of John, Sherlock cleaned them both up, drew John into a warm embrace and lifted his hands to his lips to kiss his ring.

'Always and forever, John', he murmured against his husband's fingers, looking down into John's wide blue eyes.

'Always and forever, Sherlock.'

FIN

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**THANK YOU **for reading Beautiful Stranger! If you've stayed with this till the end, I'd love it if you dropped me a review to let me know how/if you liked it.

Thanks to everyone who has favorited or reviewed the story. I really appreciate your feedback :)

If you liked this, you might want to check out my other completed fics:

Melodies: John secretly loves Sherlock but loses hope when Victor Trevor visits 221B Baker Street. Lots of hurt/comfort. Eventual HEA. First ever fic.

Cadences: Sherlock dissects John's dating habits in public - he thinks he's done well but just comes off as cruel and John is devastated. Lestrade and Mycroft try to help. Lots of hurt/comfort/angst but things end well.

False Advertising: Sherlock is John's mentor / boss at an advertising agency and they get it on.

Say Something: Because in my headcanon, Sherlock and John belong together and no incarnation of Mary Morstan can keep them apart. Not if Mycroft has anything to say about it.

In a move beyond terrestrial boundaries, I've started a new fic, a Fantasy/Mythology AU that might also be of interest. It's currently being posted on AO3 if you want to head over there. I'll start posting here in a week or two.

The Ninth Realm: When the very foundations of the Eight Realms are threatened, one man is sent on a cosmic quest to restore the balance of power. Caught in a deadly race against time, he battles gods and monsters, makes a friend, finds a soulmate and...discovers the Ninth Realm!


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